A state of grace, or of confusion?

Those who know me can tell you that I stay confused about half the time. This state of being stems from ignorance, of course. I don’t seek ignorance. It simply floats down and covers me like a soft spring mist.

No wonder then that I find myself particularly confused early Sunday mornings when I set aside time for contemplation of the Christian scriptures. These allegedly set forth the prescription for a better life beyond the travesties of our earthly wanderings. Nowadays, though, among so-called Christians, we find the scriptures, particularly the words of the Galilean, mostly unused, or, at a minimum, heavily redacted.

I’ve mentioned this to the Galilean more than once. He says I think too much and should practice, as he puts it, “allowing the mind to drift along the current, as if, “… being carried toward internal peace by the River Jordan itself.” He still has the gift of speech, doesn’t he?

Once, I responded by asking him why he preached the Sermon on the Mount if he didn’t intend to hold his people to it. It is, I pointed out to him, considered by many to be the most beautiful passage of the New Testament, perhaps of any words over spoken. Why does he allow that wondrous wisdom to lie un-worshiped, while so many hijack his teachings and concentrate on their opposite?

He simply shrugged and said, “My ways ain’t your ways.” He knows that upsets me.

This morning I selected a single passage, one that experts (of which I’m not) call “The Beatitudes.” The word is from the Latin beatus, meaning “blessed.” Ahhh. Therein lies the root of my confusion.

I chose the first of the Beatitudes for closer inspection. Two of the gospels state it thusly:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” – Matthew 5-3 (KJV)

“Blessed be ye poor: for yours is the kingdom of God.” - Luke 6:20 (KJV)

Yes, I’ve chosen the King James version since those in the “flag-decal crowd” don’t trust the scriptures unless they are presented in the original American.

Anyway,

“Why,” I asked the Galilean, “would you teach that we are blessed if we are poor in spirit or, worse, just plain poor? Aren’t your followers supposed to enjoy riches untold?”

“Idiot,” he explained.

“I didn’t say it,” Joel Osteen did.”

“Don’t aggravate me this morning,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for it. Next thing I know you’ll be quoting …uh, … what’s his name? Oh yes, Franklin Graham. He’s a real hoot, ain’t he?”

“Can we get back on topic?”

“Surely,” he said. Now tell me, what did the word ‘blessed’ mean back in my day?”

I thought. “I suppose it meant ‘favored,’ or something like that.”

“Idiot.”

“Was I wrong?”

“It meant ‘happy.’ You know what it means to be happy, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t you remember my saying that my ways ain’t … .?”

“Our ways,” I said. “I remember.”

“Well then,” he said. “If my ways ain’t your ways, did you ever consider that it’s because my world is not your world?”

I stopped to think about that.

He said, “Haven’t you ever had to endure some pain in order to arrive at a higher state of pleasure?”

“Yes.”

“I mean a genuine, five-star, gut-busting state of pleasure, nothing like normal “feel-good days.”

“Does military service count?”

“Bingo,” he said.

“You’re telling me then that enduring poverty, or the poverty of spirit, might just be preparing one for a higher state of grace down the line somewhere?”

“Bingo,” he said.

“But what about those who only seek the wealth of the moment? What about those who seek false riches? What about those who deprive the poor in order to enrich themselves, their children, or their friends? What about those who worship such people and put them in charge of the common folks? What happens to them?”

“You don’t want to know.” He said. With that, he disappeared.

I wish he would have stayed. I had so many things to ask him. He had planted a seed. Why didn’t he stay and help it grow? Was he just teasing me? Why don’t more people live by what he taught on that rocky mountain top so many years ago? Why does he always leave me confused?

Well, I guess his ways ain’t my ways.

Been confused for a long time.

My Theology Hour

An expert on theology I’m not, but I give it the honor of thought and reflection. I love the Galilean and like to keep up with him. Also, I read the Good Book through and through every few years. It does me no harm and I believe that one can’t truly begin to understand western literature without it. Last week, I mentioned, following the death of my only brother, my long-time problem with the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

See, I always felt that my parents favored my brother over me. Maybe it was true, maybe not. In my more rational moments, I imagined that my perception had some truth due only to the fact that he needed extra love and understanding. I’ve had more than one parent tell me that happens.

At any rate, my reconciliation with the parable came about when I considered it in a chronological context. There is a tendency for folks who’ve never read the whole Bible or studied its origins (seems to me that most fundamentalists fall into that category), to imagine that the books in the New Testament were written in the order presented in the store-bought version of the document.

Not true, say the experts. Many believe that the book of James is the oldest in the New Testament. They say it was written about, maybe AD 47-50. It’s one of my favorites. I treasure many lines, such as the ones about looking at your face in the mirror and then forgetting what you looked like. But … my real favorite is Verse 26: “Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless.” Can’t tell you why, it just is.

Anyway, there was an active Christian community by the time the Gospels were written starting in AD 50-50. And if one believes, as I do, that that individual humans, with personal agendas, wrote those Gospels, there could have been some hidden motivations. Some of those early Christians were a fairly rowdy lot, I mean, getting drunk on the communion wine? When they weren’t doing this, or worse, I can imagine that they bitched about everything and anything, much like some (certainly not all) of their contemporary brothers and sisters. Which brings us to the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

Imagine with me, if you will, that some of those early Christians may have drifted from the fold for a spell. Even the ultra-conservative Amish send their youth away temporarily to taste and, it is hoped, reject the foul and bitter fruits of the ungodly. As for those early Christians who did so, what happened when the wandering ones returned? Can’t you hear the rest of the congregation? “So we are just supposed to let them back in and feast upon the fatted calf, the calf, by the way, that we tended and nursed while they partied heartily? What about those of us who have stuck with one another through thick and thin and now see you letting the apostate return as if nothing happened? Is that what one gets for faithful and unbroken service? Well I never … .”

See the problem? What might work to sooth them better than, “Shut up?”

That’s right, a little teaching story from the (literary) lips of the Galilean himself. It won’t take away from the great words he uttered on the Mount and it might shut up the whiners. We’ll just slip it in and not say a word.

That’s the story of the Parable of the Prodigal Son in my opinion, for what the opinion of a “heathern” is worth.

Next, we’ll consider the parable that seems to suggest that rich men can pay their workers whatever the heck they choose and we should keep our mouths shut about it.

Embrace your wandering brother.
Better safe than sorry.

Riches, divorce, and Girl Scout cookies ...

Just finished “Theology Hour” for this Sunday morn. I know. I know. “Heatherns” have no right to study what the Galilean said. But he assured me it was okay. In fact, he even asked me a couple of questions. We, the two of us, have our “coffee-talkee” early on Sunday mornings. So we had a nice visit today, although he was an hour late. Don’t ask me what he thinks of Daylight Savings Time. Anyway, we talked.

First, he wanted to know what kind of Bible people had that was signed by a man who has had a couple of unjustified (his words) divorces and who worships riches above all things?

“Wasn’t I pretty clear about that?”

“Seemed so to me,” I said, “but remember that I tend toward secular humanism.”

“I don’t judge you for that,” he said, “even told the Pope so.” In fact, that brings up another point.”

I waited.

“Girl Scout cookies,” he said. That made me look his way. “I like Girl Scout cookies,” he said. “Especially the Thin Mints. ‘Johnnie the B-Man’ likes the Shortbreads. Says they remind him of the taste of raw honey. The rest of our bunch likes any of them, as long as they don’t have to pay for them.” He made a humorous squinting face and said, in a mocking falsetto voice nodding his head from left to right, “If you can make water into wine, surely you can make mud pies into Girl Scout cookies.”

“Girl Scout cookies?”

“Didn’t I read where some jerk hates a woman in a different political party who was a Girl Scout, so he wants to boycott their cookies?”

“I think so. Is there anything you’d like to pass along to him and his people?”

“Yeah,” he said. “If you get the chance, tell them that they’d better not make me come back down there again.”

He was getting into a mood, so we finished our coffee and he parted. I picked up the Scriptures again, the volume that doesn’t redact the parts about riches, divorce, judging others, the Sermon on the Mount, and the 25^th Chapter of Matthew, i.e. the “autographable version.”

Next week, I think I’ll take up the Parable of the Prodigal Son. That one has always bothered me, for I’ve felt at times that my parents always favored my brother over me. If you have any ideas, I’d welcome them.

As we would say in the Sixties, “Peas and harmony grits.”

My Redacted Life: Chapter 26 (Cont._2)

It was Saturday morning and the one I had been thinking of as my girlfriend wasn’t helping my sprained ankle very much. Her advice was to get up and walk on it. Easy for her to say. It wasn’t her ankle. I looked at her ankles, between the end of her jeans and her sockless shoes. They were nicely turned, slim but strong. Sexy as could be, but I’ll bet they weren't throbbing in pain.

I chose a different approach. The “pitiful invalid” act wasn’t working. “Maybe we could go for a ride and give my ankle time to heal,” I said. “You can drive.”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “We’re having dinner with my folks tomorrow after church.”

By “dinner,” she meant the noon meal. We hailed from rural Arkansas, after all.

“After church?”

“After they get back from church. I told them we’d be there a little after twelve.”

She hadn’t said a word to me about it. “What if I had other plans?”

“I guess you’d have to break them, now wouldn’t you?”

I set my hard-earned college education to work trying to make sense of that. My ego kicked in. Who did she think she was, ordering me around? I was a man. Speaking of church, didn’t the Bible say I was in charge of everything? The master? The unquestioned leader? Women followed, obeyed, and kept their mouths shut. I’d heard many a preacher say that. What was she, a Methodist or something? I’d never asked, but that was probably it. Well, let us settle this theological dilemma right now.

She needed to know that men were the master sex, the stronger sex. Where was she when I was sitting on the edge of the jungle wondering when the mortars might rain down on me? Where was she when I returned stateside with my new service ribbons and we had to run past the protesters yelling insults at the airport? Where was she when green water washed the decks of the old USS Hunley while it rolled to starboard with a terrifying shudder in the midst an Atlantic storm? Was I a yearling waiting to be led around by a nose ring? No, absolutely not. I stiffened in my chair.

“That’s tomorrow,” I said. What do you want to do today?”

“Baby, today we’re going to get you walking.” She smiled at me. A rosy tint filled the room. I’ll swear there was a hint of lilacs in the air. My ankle ceased its throbbing. Then I went completely blind. I closed my eyes in fear, but insight shot through me.

She had called me “Baby.” I opened my eyes and found I could see again.

Oh ... you can be the master.
Just don't let it make you bossy.