A Good Article

C.S. Lewis at the Movies

Recipe 4 fall fun

4 girls and an easy caramel apple recipe:

1 1/2 Tbsp. butter
1 1/2 c. light brown sugar
6 Tbs. water (we used cream instead, a little more than 6 Tbsp., and were very happy with the results)
some kind of sticks--popsicle works
8-10 apples

Melt the butter in a saucepan. Add the sugar and cream. Stir until it has a smooth consistency. Gently bring to boil, then cover and simmer for 3 minutes, until the pan sides are steamy and the mixture is thin but somewhat sticky. Remove from heat. Pierce the center of each apple with a stick, then swirl in the caramel syrup until coated. Place apples on a greased cookie sheet to harden. Refrigerate for 1-2 hours (okay, ours didn't make it that long).

Have fun!

a deep, profound question, fitting for the time of night

Why, in English, do we say decaffeinated tea? There wasn't ever any coffee in tea. Why don't we say deteinated tea like Italian? Of course, that might sound a little too much like a bomb...

These are the questions we ask ourselves.

Hep Yusef and friends

The pear tree says to the apple tree, "So, how do you like the new branch the farmer grafted in?"

The apple tree responds, "Well, at first I didn't take to it, but now it's starting to grow on me."

Wonderful Grace of Jesus

I find myself having trouble concentrating when I pray sometimes. My mind hops around, lighting on everything imaginable but God, or repeats by rote the words I think I should be saying, while really thinking about something else. And then, after days of answering, “fine,” to inquiries about my state of being, and adding “I guess,” under my breath, I wake up and find that I am not fine. I am discouraged, homesick, disgruntled. And have a nagging feeling that it has to do with my problem with prayer.

I’m afraid to be still.

Being still before the Lord leaves me too vulnerable. I’m too afraid—afraid of seeing God in His perfection, His holiness, even His love, because I know I’ll see myself for what I really am in comparison; and also afraid because I have a sneaking suspicion that I really know what I really am, and I don’t want God to see that.

It’s so easy for me to get out of whack. One wouldn’t think it would be difficult for me to understand the love of God. I grew up in a loving family, surrounded by the best blessings of existence. And yet, I don’t understand it. Maybe it’s a reaction against seeing too much emphasis in my culture on the love of God, without enough teaching on the holiness of God; maybe it’s an increasing realization of my weakness, my failures; maybe it’s the world, the flesh, and the devil working on my Javertian pride that refuses to accept grace. "If only I could be sure God wasn't angry with me," Luther said. I can identify. Even when I know He's not, I feel a little like He should be.

But even as the kindness of God must not be set up to avoid His wrath, neither can His wrath diminish His kindness.

The sermon in church last Sunday was on Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. I love the way John starts off that section: “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” His own were men, the preacher pointed out, who had been following him around displaying weakness and failure, not understanding when he taught them the basics over, and over, and over again. But he loved them to the end.

Do you know what his love meant? It meant he washed their feet. And when dear, human Peter refused, he said, no, you have to accept this—if I don’t wash you, you can’t have any part in me. No, not all of you, because you’re clean—just the dirty part.

It’s so hard, letting Jesus wash us. To see him get down and take care of the part that needs it the most, but is the part we’d most like him to avoid.

I think the disciples’ feet got dirty again. I think later that night in the garden, their feet got plenty dirty. I think John went home and looked at his feet, and wrote, “He loved them to the end.”

My church here is having an evangelistic service in the park Sunday, and one of the organizers asked if I could repeat the testimony I gave in church a few months back. I agreed (and then wondered if it would be wrong to pray for rain), so I went to look back at it today. I noticed some things in it that I needed to hear. That I didn’t receive grace in the first place because I deserve it, nor do I continue to receive grace because I deserve it. That when Paul says, “I am the worst of sinners,” he says mercy was shown him to demonstrate Christ’s patience. That His compassion is never used up: it is new every morning.

It’s so easy to get discouraged here. It’s easy to see my weaknesses and failures: times I said the wrong thing, times I should have said something and didn’t, times I was only thinking of myself and having fun and possibly lost the opportunity to win someone as a result. It’s hard to see what God’s doing, when I don’t have many new students, and most of the ones I do have are believers already, and I’ve lost contact with some of my unbelieving friends and don’t see where any of this is headed.

I remember a sermon I listened to saying that discouragement is usually the result of someone taking a responsibility on himself that doesn’t belong to him. And I have to say, Lord, saving people is not my responsibility, it is yours. And Lord—sanctifying me is not my responsibility either. It’s yours.

I heard a story once about a “great Christian man” named Alan in the hospital, confined to a wheelchair. A pastor came to visit him, and asked how he was. “I’m so dirty,” said Alan. “I never knew how dirty I was.” The pastor prayed with him and left, telling one of the nurses in the hall, “Take care of Alan—he’s a special man.” “Yes, you’re right,” she said. “He is special—some of the nurses and I were talking about him. He’s so…pure. I always come away feeling clean after talking with him.”

It’s broken clay jars that light shines through. It’s Moses the murderer standing in the desert saying, “Who am I?” and God saying, that’s not the issue. The point is who I AM.

On my way back on the train tonight, I saw a fresh spray-paint message. Something about love, I didn't see it all--but the part I saw said "love...puts up with everything," (loose translation; word, supporta-did you ever notice that about the word "bear," too--"puts up with," but also "holds up," or even "carries"). Yes, all things. By this we know love--surely he has borne our griefs.

So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us.

In the presence of a Holy God,
There’s new meaning now to grace;
You took all my sins upon yourself,
I can only stand amazed:
Holy, holy, holy God,
How awesome is your name,
Holy, holy, holy God
How majestic is your reign;
And I am changed,
In the presence of a holy God.

Plenteous grace in Thee is found,
Grace to cover all my sin,
Let the healing streams abound,
Make and keep me pure within.

Grace, grace, God’s grace—grace that is greater than all my sin.

I'll never tell anybody what I did, I'll never tell anybody what I did...

Do you know what I did?

So it had been a pretty productive day, and I was feeling decently proud of myself. I had cleaned the house, done my grocery shopping, washed and hung a load of laundry, tried (with uncertain results) to clean the calcium buildup off of my showerhead (anyone have any suggestions?) to get it unplugged, made 3 calls in Italian (to businesses, which counts for bonus points over friends), and been reassured that I was not going to jail for the fact that I hadn't asked to have my heater maintenainced earlier in the year. All in all, not a bad day.

So I was going out to catch the bus to go to church for the evening, and it passed me. No problem. Being the accomplished woman I am, I can run in stiletto-heeled boots when I need to. I caught up to it at the stop. The back doors were open, but I was afraid if I tried for the front, where you're really supposed to get on, I might not make it. Besides, I reasoned to myself, the doors wouldn't shut on me.

Wrong. Evidently they haven't learned about person-sensors on doors here. I got caught halfway through. There was only one thing to do if I was going to avoid being stuck there and dragged along the street by the bus. I squealed. Or maybe it was more of a yelp.

The doors opened, and I extricated myself, sans dignity, and climbed aboard. "In Italy," the bus driver was saying rather loudly at the front, "We get on in the front and get off in the back." The busload of passengers turned to look at me, and I felt it was my turn. "Yes," I whimpered. "I'm sorry?"

He asked if I was hurt. Well, only my pride, but that'll heal. It's always shown a remarkable capacity for regrowth.

smiling to myself at you

I wish I had a camera hidden in my eyes. I could half-blink to focus, blink all the way to take.

I could try a camera, but if I have it then I don't have it ready and if I do have it ready my shot's always half-a-hair too late. Besides, it's the people I want pictures of, and even if it weren't rude to randomly go around taking people's pictures, people change when you point a camera at them.

What I want is that moment in the rose garden. The three women with their backs to me, looking in the shop window, the one on the right with yellow pants. The old man right after them, plaid confusion between his pants and hat and dog. The Japanese girl sitting on the floor against the green wall, hair falling over her shoulders and eyes closing as the language all starts to run together in her ears.

But I don't have a camera in my eyelids, so I must just enjoy the beauty as it goes.

I went to bed too late four nights ago. The pubs had emptied out and the street was still, but I could hear a TV. I listened, thinking it sounded like English. That used to happen to me a lot-- I think my brain was doing oral recognition exercises, trying to convert the Italian into something it could understand. My hopes would rise, only to be dashed against the reality of my lingual mirage.

I got up and went to the window. I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it was English--an NBA game. And I know I wouldn't have dreamed NBA. I leaned out the shutters and listened to the whistles and announcers and fans, then smiled and went back to bed.

I went to a bookstore again today, looking for new textbooks. And although 99% of the people inside were Italian, and 95% of the books, I was shocked when I came out to find myself on a street in Italy. Books do that to me. So does music. I was playing the keyboard at church once, and when someone asked me a question, and I responded, it took me a moment to realize I had answered in English.

I think it just goes to show that nonostante il fatto che posso parlare e leggere ed anche pensare tutto il giorno in italiano senza problema, my heart still beats in English. Anytime I feel something, love or sadness or anger or joy, I lose all sense of second language.

I always knew there was a language deeper than thought--but I don't think I realized how deeply it is connected with language. So that language means not only a means of communication, but of feeling. And maybe this is why it's so important to write. Because it's the closest thing I can come to what I'm trying to feel.

Happy Birthday Dad!

I miss you singing songs I've never heard of and wiggling your eyebrows while whistling Andy Griffith and laughing. Love you!

Don’t do the Don’t-Do

“Do not handle, do not taste, do not touch.” Sound like a sign in the fruit department?

A lot of times Christians seem to think this is the definition of virtue: walking through the aisle of fun things in life wearing handcuffs. We hear about all the things Christians can’t do, the people Christians can’t date, the places Christians can’t go, the words Christians can’t say. We see a lot of people walking around with What Would Jesus Not Do bracelets (well, okay, I made that one up).

We Christians look a lot like everyone else, only with a longer not-to-do list.

This definition of virtue as un-vice shows up in all of our attempts to not-do stuff for God. We pat ourselves on the back for how holy we’re being, complain to God about how difficult it is and how much we’re giving up for him; and then we’re shocked when we do what we don’t want to do—or maybe more honestly, what we wanted to do, but knew we shouldn’t (What?! You mean Christians get pregnant out of wedlock too?!).

STOP NOT-DOING STUFF FOR GOD!

Behold the great lie of the enemy: “nice = not vice!” We think as if vice is the real thing, and we must struggle against it if we want to please God. The truth is vice-versa.

Virtue is not a lack, an absence, or a refraination (okay, so I made that word up); it is a thing in itself— “white is a color, not merely the absence of color,” as Chesterton said. Disease is not a thing in itself; it is an absence of health. Health is the thing (is that Chesterton too?).

Every vice is simply a misuse of virtue, either through excess or shortage. It is a failure to hit the balance of the golden rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you (notice the positive way Christ stated this, not as a negative like other religions), for this sums up the law and the prophets.”

“The commandments…‘you shall not…you shall not…you shall not…you shall not’…are summed up in this word: ‘you shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore love is the fulfilling of the law,” says Paul. (Rom. 13:9,10; Gal. 5:13,14). “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them,” says Christ (Matt. 5:17).

If the law is love, and God is love, does the law = God? The law is an expression of the character of God, His glory. Any time we fall short of keeping the law, we fall short of the character of God; in short, short of virtue.

Virtue, as defined by the dictionary, includes the ideas of “righteousness,” or “rectitude;” the right ordering of loves, I vaguely remember someone calling it. What is the right ordering of loves? Love the Lord your God, with all your heart, and soul, and mind, and strength. Why? Because God is selfish? No. Because it is right to love Him the most, because He is the highest and best and truest and most beautiful; any messing with the order of our loves skews their relationship to one another and leaves us in a vicious downward spiral. Only when we love God the most can we love our neighbor rightly; only when we love God and our neighbor can we fulfill the righteous requirement of the law.

The inverse (or corollary, or whatever you wish) of this principle is that any vice is a failure to love God. This is why we can’t defeat it by just trying to combat the sin; we have to get to the root by dealing with our love for God.

I tried this out this morning. I went for a walk to pray, but kept being distracted by thoughts about my Self.

I struggle with vanity sometimes. I know, some might say, “That’s not vanity, it’s just a mistake!” and some might say, “That statement is fishing for compliments.” Vanity is not always displayed in thinking I am beautiful, but in thinking about my appearance (or intelligence, or niceness, or…) in the wrong way— I can be just as vain when I look in the mirror and say, “Wow, I look ugly today!” as when I say, “Wow, I look good!” The danger lies in the thinking of myself and my own worth by my own standards or those around me, and not with sober judgment. My eyes are not getting past myself and what is visible to what is Real. And any woman (man too, I’m sure, but maybe in different ways) knows how dangerous this is. This is why we have such problems with self-esteem sometimes. Thanks for the warning, proverbist, about beauty being fleeting, but we knew that already.

So, anyway, I went for a walk, but kept getting distracted. “Lord, I just can’t stop thinking about this, but I know I need to, because I know it’s sinful and not pleasing to you,” I said. “And why is it sin?” He asked. “Well…” I said. “I suppose because it’s wanting me to be God and wanting everything to revolve around me instead of you.” Funny how all my sins seem to come back to this. Or not so funny. “But I do want you to be God, I just can’t get rid of myself and my obsession with myself.”

“Leave that to me,” He said. “Now, speaking of beauty, where does it come from? Who made it? Who is the most beautiful?”

“Well, you I guess…” I said, and raised my head. What was it I had read about adoration, the thing we’re supposed to start prayers with? Oh, thinking of it as giving compliments to God. I looked around.

“Wow, Lord,” I said. “What a beautiful day you have made! Look at all those colors! Those butterflies, and those flowers—you really are an amazing artist.” And I meant it.

And then I realized the virtue which vanity derives from: pride. A real, healthy pride in God’s beauty and artistry and goodness. The sense of, “Yeah, well, my Daddy can create a prettier world than your daddy!”

I laughed. And when I got home, I looked in the mirror and didn’t see myself; I saw someone God had made. And it was good.

So this is what we come down to, once again: it’s not about me, it’s about God.

Of course even realizing this doesn’t mean we won’t struggle (sin is not the same as temptation) or have to exercise self-control. But self-control is a fruit of the Spirit, not its fertilizer. So we can boast in our weaknesses (even when they’re temptations to sin), fixing our eyes above, where Christ is seated. Knowing that our weakness can display His perfect power, and we needn’t be afraid. Knowing that we have the promise of the hope of glory. Knowing that someday, someday, we will be like Him.




*acknowledgments: I am indebted to Charles Price, pastor of The People's Church of Toronto and speaker at the recent Avant Europe conference, for the understanding that the character of God is the glory of God. And indebted to the other people for their ideas that I used--probably more than I am aware of, because some of my thoughts don't sound entirely original and I'm sure the originals stated them in a much clearer way. Yes, some of them I know, but don't want to name for fear of being guilty of presumption.

Do the 'do

Before: Somebody help this girl!



After:

Have we met?

Only problem is this 'do has an attitude, and is communicating said attribute to it's wearer...yeah. I look good. ;) Now if only I had someplace to go...

Waterwaterwaterwater...

All the Italians want to know how it compares with "my sea." "My sea?" I say. "Which one would that be? The closest thing that could be called "sea" is about 10 hours drive..."

"10 hours!" they say. "So what do you do when you want to go to the sea?"

I laugh. "Well, it's not something we just wake up in the morning and decide to do..."

In waiting

I knew it, even before I got to the coffee pot this morning. I felt it, even before I could put the nametag “homesick” on it. I found myself reciting lines of Christina Rossetti, Grace Knoll Croll, Erendis Nasard, the Psalmist. And they all sounded very mournful. “Oh, that I had wings of a dove…”

It followed me to work—this walking-the-edge-of-a-knife tension that signifies one of those days when you feel every moment, afraid that the atoms holding you together might give way before you can get home, and you will melt into a puddle of tears and random bits of matter at your feet (which will subsequently cease to be feet, since they will melt too), and feel that you are a Thing which has properly lost all of its Property-ness. And you know, in theory, that you are young and strong and happy and that only makes it worse because none of these facts have communicated themselves to your hands or feet or brain yet. In Girl, we say: chocolate and crying (no cure, but a treatment, at least). In Boy…I don’t speak Boy, but I have a feeling there is no equivalent.

But I reminded myself of a devotional I read recently, which included this sentence: “My desires become material for sacrifice.” I was thankful for this, because it meant that I have something concrete to offer up to God. Instead of just saying, in general, “Yes, Lord, I want to take up my cross and follow you, take my whole life,” I could say specifically, “Look, Lord—I have this pain; this love; this desire for a good thing: I put this on my altar, right now, specifically, because I want to be yours.” And so the pain becomes a reminder of my decision to follow Christ, of His purchase of my holiness, becomes something I have which I can give as an action of love; a reminder of joy.

I wrote Isaiah 40:31 on the board for my first lesson, and we talked our way through the various words. “Tell me what this makes you think of,” I said. “Are you ever tired?” Eliseo, my only young student for the class, shrugged. “I’m in waiting,” he said.

I tried to explain to him that we don’t say that in English. “This is very poetic, has the sense of waiting, expecting, depending on God, seeking His will,” I said. I looked later in the Italian, which says, “hope in.”

We then went on to talk about the use of “shall” as a promise (or a threat, but I don’t think so in this case). It reminded me of something I read, speaking of holding God to His promises. That’s faith, isn’t it? Taking God at His word.

Someone who felt things even more than I do, and who actually had reason to feel things, believed this: “This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in Him.’ The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.”

I did remember one way in which we use “in waiting” in English: when we consider something only a matter of time (do you know, I miss the word “expect” in Italian—it only has “wait,” which isn’t always the same), especially with royalty, or champions. “The princesses in waiting,” I saw once as a title for the girlfriends of the Royal Highnesses. I too, am expecting to be royal, but I don't have to anxiously await approval--I already have the promise.

Our citizenship is in heaven, from which we eagerly await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly bodies to be like His glorious body, by the power that enables Him even to subject all things to Himself.

Lord, I will be quiet and wait—not tapping my toes, but firm in the knowledge that you have everything taken care of, knowing that I too will rise up with wings as eagles.

That special something...

For those of you who have ever thought of it as a light subject, it’s not. At least not when you live in Italy.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but in summer my style always tends toward minimalist, careless chic—as in, I don’t care what I wear, as long as it’s cool. I generally wear only basic makeup jewelry—who needs all that stuff on their skin, anyway?

But here, style continues into the summer. Probably around 90% of the women on the street now are wearing dresses—a cool, comfortable, fluttery option. And although many of them I wouldn’t wear myself, being a girl I don’t have so much of a personal problem with the lack of modesty some of them display, so I’ve mostly been enjoying the fashion show. But it’s very different from the American look-like-you’re-gorgeous-without-trying look. They definitely try, and know what they’re doing. I hand in my hat to them.

I went out to the park yesterday, it being my day off, and knew I was going there to read and tan. So I wore a sleeveless denim shirt over a tank top, shorts, and black sandals that are sort of like flip-flops, but not.

Out on the street, I had the feeling of one who has been caught in the main building during business hours when there is a reception going on wearing gym clothes—or maybe pajamas. Maybe like you and I felt, C, in the Galleria, only more so. I slunk my way down the sidewalk, feeling all the reproving eyes on me, half expecting to be reprimanded for dressing out of code. I know they were looking at the faded polish on my toenails. But why don’t I ever think of that while I’m at home?

This is ridiculous, I finally told myself. I am an adult, and I ought to be able to wear whatever I want to wear to walk on the street going to the park. This is a street, not a by-invitation-only fashion show. I refuse to be self-conscious. I am an American, and I will dress like it if I want to!

But later I bought a set of bangle bracelets to have another accessory.

If you want to see for yourself:

thesartorialist.blogspot.com has several pictures from the streets of Italy. These people aren’t the exception, they’re the Rule.

Aaaaaaah!!!!

I...made...an...appointment to get my hairs cut in a foreign country! I'm not sure whether to be excited or terrified...

So far

Change, and constancy
Still nostalgia of the soul.
So we live panting for the next
Memory of before.

Every always time
Heart slips into reverse
With forward thrust.

Fall dripped through my fingers,
Winter bared my flaws.
Spring sang sharp and
Summer stole upon me blind.

Apart from you, the charm
Is lacking in the face
Of change; chameleon-child
Wants faith for company.

Slowing future fades to memory--
Your presence perfect calm of constancy times change.

Dusty

I'm currently reading La sedia d'argento--perhaps more familiarly known as The Silver Chair. Many benefits to this, including Italian (word of the day: cavaliere--note the similarities with English "cavalier" and Spanish "caballero", which for some reason had never occured to me without this middle link. For further fun, cavallo is horse.)

I love this book, perhaps more so from my current perspective. "Remember the signs," Aslan tells Jill. "It's easy to remember them here on the mountain, where the air is clear, and your brain is clear. But down there the air is heavy, and muddles the brain, so you must repeat the signs." (loose translation).

I haven't gotten to my favorite part yet, but I know it's coming--where Jill and Eustace and Pozzanghera are further down yet--not only in the air that is not from the mountain, but in the underworld, and the witch is sprinkling green dust and the air is heavy and they can't remember what is real. But Puddleglum is my hero.

Set your mind on things that are true...

it's april

With thanks to Erendis, who first rendered me conscious of this. And it was finally true today!



when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

~ee cummings

quote of the yesterday

Italian teacher: "teoricamente, in teoria...in Italia, tutto in teoria."




if you want the translation, it's down there...















"Theoretically, in theory...in Italy, everything's 'in theory.'"

Moriar, ne moriar

I don’t want to be writing this post. I’m tired, my feet hurt, it’s raining and cold, my internet connection isn’t working, there is not sufficient chocolate available in the house (somebody must have eaten it), and I just don’t feel like it [edit from 4-15-08: and now my bike has a tire that is as a flat pancake and refuses to be otherwise]. But (if you don’t want to read the rest) that’s kind of the point.

I wanted to write this earlier in the day, when I wanted to write it. When I could feel it in every bone of my body and I was almost crying with the reality of it—doubly-so because I couldn’t write it down at the moment. Now I don’t want to. I tried to avoid telling God that, because I don’t feel like talking to him, but I reasoned to myself that it would be dishonest, writing something like this when I don’t feel it, or it might be trying to impress everyone with my good Christianity, and that wouldn’t be right, would it?

So in the course of avoiding writing this, and looking for the 20th time for the piece of paper that might have the information that might help me understand what’s wrong with my internet connection, I came across a card in a handwriting that is like mine, only much younger. It belongs to someone who was me once, years ago, and says this:

Psalm 93

The LORD reigns, he is robed in majesty;
The LORD is robed in majesty, and is armed with strength.
The world is firmly established; it cannot be moved.
Your throne was established long ago;
You are from all eternity.
The seas have lifted up, O LORD, the seas have lifted up their voice;
The seas have lifted up their pounding waves.
Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,
Mightier than the breakers of the sea—
The LORD on high is mighty.
Your statutes stand firm; holiness adorns your house for endless days,
O LORD.

oh.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled post. And hopefully it actually means a little bit of something now.

The utmost reality for the believer is the existence of God. That’s it. That’s what it all boils down to— God is…good, loving, many things. But most of all, God is.

We must needs worship the highest when we see it (what is that from, anyway?). And when we recognize God’s is-ness, as God, it is also recognition of his highest-ness. And requires our worship. Think of His name by which He calls Himself. Before Abraham was…

This state of worship is the place where we are most fulfilled, because it is where we are most fully fulfilling what we were made to do. Even thinking of what He has done for us—redeeming us from our own sins—is supposed to point to something higher; the why of redemption: so that we might declare His glory, His greatness, His godness. (Yes, I feel like coining words today. I can, too, because you can tell what I mean, right? Which means we were communicating. Which means that it served its purpose as a word. But I digress.) If you doubt this, await upcoming post in which I will confound the point further, or read John Piper or C.S. Lewis—or maybe, Paul! And the Psalms! But you don’t doubt, do you, that God is the why and wherefore of history? The reason by which we exist, and the reason for which we exist? (Hm, this is sounding familiar…)

Jesus said, “Abide in me.” What is that but basking in the presence of God, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord, in whose presence is fullness of joy? And we have seen His glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.

Continuing, He said, “I have told you these things that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.” What does it mean? 1. He delights in us; 2. He plants his joy in our hearts; or, 3. our joy is in him?

“ ‘All three at once!’ said Bilbo.” When we gaze on God’s goodness, acknowledging His godness, we are filled with a joy inexpressible and full of glory, a peace that passes understanding, a hope that does not disappoint. Of course, as soon as we try to lay our fingers on these things, they disappear—they are the things, as C.S. Lewis put it, that you cannot find by looking for them. Because they are the result of God’s joy in Himself being reflected in our hearts (and if this sounds selfish of God to you, I refer you to earlier reading suggestions). They are the little weak echo that our hearts respond with when they hear the glory of God being played as the theme of history. They are a preview of heaven.

I had one, yesterday. We had a baptism at church, and when the baptized emerged from the water, we all let forth song, Son salvato per grazia/ Ed a Lui do la Gloria/ Son salvato per grazia/ Da Cristo Gesu… I am saved by grace/ and I give the glory to Him/ I am saved by grace/ through Christ Jesus…it was a moment when one said to oneself, yes. It will be beautiful beyond imagining.

But, to borrow from Lewis again, we must be careful not to confuse our feelings about the thing with the thing itself. Perhaps this is why they disappear when we look for them. And this is why (Hannah) we must not base our behaviors on the feelings—they aren’t The One Thing Needful, The Pearl of Great Price.

And here is where the surprise comes in: not only do we get to experience this joy, but this is when it can be seen by others, too, as we all with unveiled faces behold the glory of the Lord and are changed ourselves from glory unto glory, becoming the aroma of Christ as we shine like stars in the universe.

So we can confidently say,

Though He slay me, yet shall I hope in Him.

We know that our old self was crucified with Him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin. For one who has died has been set free from sin. Now if we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with Him…present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and your members to God as instruments of righteousness. For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace.

Let us be grateful for receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, and thus let us offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire.

Lord, consume my self in you, that you may be all in all.

Y I h8 SMS

SMS being text messaging in a more compact name, since our already highly-efficient language obviously needs compactness. But I digress.

There may be people in the world who can wittily and accurately say what they mean in 60 characters or less, and there may well be people to whom it is not a matter of note whether or not they accurately and wittily say what they intend. I, unhappily and happily, respectively, am not one of them. IM is bad enough for misinterpretations, because it requires less thought even than an email, and has less personality than a person's voice, or even handwriting. But whoever created SMS did a thing far, far worse than anyone else had ever done.

I love words. I love the way they taste when I say them, and I love the way they flow together under my fingers, creating sentences with sense that can even occasionally be a pleasure to behold. But most of all, I love the way they do what they were intended to do- communicate.

I love turning to my palette and choosing the appropriate word to placate my palate (Might someone suggest a better word for "turning" or "choosing" in that sentence?). But alas, they do not exist!

What doesn't exist? My mind! I mean, the words in my mind that I'm trying to say...

ahem. Excuse the Odyssey moment.

To conclude. It has been conclusively proven that SMS is less than human. And does not make sufficient allowances for writing majors. So I suppose I shall just keep taking twice as long to answer and being charged twice as much when the phone decides that my message is not one, but two.