new to you friday–I have a theme

Well, Dudley went another (excellent) direction for the 2011 NACC, but I still like my theme.

This past year I worked through a few issues in therapy (best money I’ve ever spent), began editing a new magazine for young girls (more on this soon), made some new friends, tried ziplining, quit a few freelance jobs and picked up a few more, traveled to Chicago by myself, and even played on a kickball team (well, I got on base a few times). It’s been a great year, mostly because I tried some kind-of-scary things.

This Halloween weekend, fear not! What brave thing do you need to do between now and December 31 to make this a great year?

————————————————————————

It’s a safe bet I’ll never be asked to serve as NACC president, but just in case I’ve got my theme ready.


My mom teaches Human Development at CCU, and during the early childhood portion of the course she describes the “fearful, flexible, and feisty” theory, which defines three basic temperaments.

Every child fits one, and I was definitely in the fearful category. Old friends still laugh about my response to the overstimulation and forced playtime of the church nursery—I hid alone under the cribs until Brandon Abercrombie joined me there to pull my hair. I spent many mornings before kindergarten and first grade quietly crying at the breakfast table, and had a meltdown when I couldn’t write the number 2 as well as my teacher, Mrs. Pence. (My mother’s gentle yet firm response: “Jenni, Mrs. Pence is old. She’s been making 2s for a long time. You’re five.”)


And yet, as I’ve moved into adulthood, I find myself taking risks while others play it safe. I went 300 miles away to a college where I knew only one person and majored in English Lit (go ahead, you know you’re dying to say it: “How are you going to get a job with a major like that?”).

I tackled projects, like teaching myself QuarkXPress to design the NACC program book, that seem foolishly difficult in retrospect. (There is something to be said for the ignorance of youth.) I moved to California alone, then moved to Nashville alone. I helped reconfigure a company, then realized I couldn’t take another day in a cubicle and launched out as a freelance writer not knowing if it would actually allow me to pay my bills.


My fearful temperament hasn’t changed, but I’ve learned it’s okay to be afraid—what counts is how you respond.


Think about it: almost every Bible character who allowed God to use his life in a significant way did so because he obeyed in spite of fear. Abraham left everything familiar to travel to a far country, David spent years on the run from a mad king, Mary delivered a baby alone in a cave, Paul survived shipwrecks and endured prison. I’d bet my “Footprints” plaque they felt fear, but the glory—God’s glory—came from their choice to obey anyway.

So that would be my NACC theme: Fear not! The angels said it to terrified shepherds (who then obeyed by finding Jesus). “Be strong and courageous,” God told his people (who obeyed and conquered the Promised Land). “Fear the Lord your God,” he commands us, and we obey, even if it means swallowing our fear of people.

Throughout Scripture, God’s people feel fear as a noun but don’t indulge in fear as a verb, and I’d use my hypothetical presidency to remind God’s people today to follow their example. Dudley, you’re up for 2011—you can have this one if you give me a credit line in the program book.

just asking

There are some issues for which I can recite the evangelical position point by alliterated point. The problem is, some of these answers are no longer working for me.

So for the next few days, I’m going to throw some out for discussion. I honestly don’t have an agenda here, other than to create a place for dialogue. As I learned when I expressed my boredom with church, I’m not the only one wrestling with these questions.


So let’s talk about them. First up?

Tithing.


Traditional position I can recite: We are commanded to give 10% and it must be to the local church where we are spiritually fed. We should then be as generous as possible to the other missions, ministries and charities we believe in. If you do this God will bless you—maybe financially, maybe with relationships, health, professional success, or any other way he sees fit. You can test him in this; you will always receive more than you give.

My experience: 2010 has been the best year I’ve had in a decade—professionally, personally and financially. But I stopped tithing to my church in 2009 because it hit me just how many thousands of dollars I have given in the last 12+ years and how little I agree with how they’ve been spent. As a woman I don’t get to be on the team that decides such things (more on that later—you’re welcome) but I’m still expected to write the checks.

I just can’t keep giving money to maintain a building that sits empty most of the week, buys supplies for programs I find misguided or wasteful, or funds initiatives championed by elders with whom I disagree. Instead, these days I give money to support individual missionaries, I sponsor children in need, and I donate my time and professional services to good causes.

Some of you may shake your head at this admission, but some of you are nodding in agreement, too. Tithing to the local church when the local church seems ineffective isn’t working for me, and despite the traditional teaching on the subject, I don’t seem to be experiencing any adverse effects.

What do we do with this?

new to you friday–fleeced

We’ll talk about this more next week, I think—the differences between what we hear from the pulpit and what we experience in our own lives.

For now, I’m interested in your take on this specific issue: when (if ever) should we ask God for a sign? Is there a danger in relating to God this way? How often do we simply believe what we want to believe?

————————————————————————————

This week at the National Missionary Convention, Florence Muindi shared the story of seeking God’s will in a ministry decision. After praying about whether to stay in Africa or move to the United States, she asked God to confirm the right direction with two things: if her brother wore a green shirt to lunch the next day, and if she woke up to exactly 16 emails in her inbox, she would stay in Ethiopia. If not, she would move to the States.

The next morning her young son, aware of the terms, woke her up to announce she had 16 emails. Later that afternoon they both stared at the green shirt Florence’s brother “just felt like wearing” that day.


In Christian circles, “laying out a fleece” is not often encouraged. It’s true we aren’t to test God, and there’s a danger in constructing arbitrary circumstances and viewing them as divine intervention. But no one in the Tulsa Convention Center on Thursday night would argue Muindi was wrong to pray that prayer, or that it wasn’t conclusively answered.

How do we know when, or if, it’s okay to “bargain” with God this way? Is it a matter of sincerity? Muindi was truly torn about her decision, truly seeking God, and truly committed to obeying no matter what His answer. How many of us can claim the same thing when we ask for specific confirmation? I wonder if our desire to receive such tangible responses to prayer is actually a lack of faith which “fleeces” God of the opportunity to build our spiritual muscles.


I’ve only prayed this kind of prayer one time. Several years ago during a trip to the beach, I prayed that God would change the heart of a man I loved who didn’t love God. “If he will become a Christian and this relationship has a future, let me see a shooting star,” I prayed while walking along the sand one evening. I knew the odds of glimpsing one of these nighttime visions was rare. Not ten seconds later, seriously, I looked up to see a star shoot across the sky with a gleam of light. Inside, I beamed as bright as the star, certain God had answered my prayer with a yes.

Later that year, the guy told me he would never change his mind about Christ and we ended the relationship. Maybe I should have asked to see a green shirt instead.

growing like Jesus

Christian Standard recently asked me and seven other contributing editors to consider the various ways Jesus grew—”in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men”—and to share how we’re growing in one of those areas.

Here’s my answer–don’t miss the other excellent responses on the CS website.

This spring I tagged a few days onto a California business trip so I could spend time with friends.

First I had coffee with John, who shared his recent decision to leave a safe ministry position and start a new church. “I waited years to discover this calling, and just tried to stay faithful until I saw the next step,” he told me. “And I’m not afraid because God is in it.”

Next was Kyle, who told me about his trip to Africa and how he left his fear there. Then he described how I seem to be struggling with my own fears, and how it could look to create margin in my life to explore these questions.

Then Christie, who pushed me to consider whether I was using workaholism as an escape. When I admitted her questions seemed eerily similar to these other conversations, she replied, “Well, it seems like God’s using anyone he can to get your attention.”

None of these friends knew that many of my recent struggles included lack of clarity over my own next steps, the wrestling match between being and doing, or temptations to stay safe and avoid risk. But God knew, and he spoke truth through people close to me. These days it is THE way he is helping me grow in wisdom.


I wonder how much God might have used the quiet faith of Mary or the strength of Joseph to help Jesus grow. Jesus prepared 30 years for his three-year ministry—how many now-anonymous friends, cousins, neighbors and teachers spoke into his journey?

We know his interactions with the disciples, with the religious leaders, and even with anonymous followers affected him. He was “astonished” by the faith of the centurion (Matthew 8 ) and “amazed” by others’ lack of faith (Mark 6).

He asked questions—some rhetorical, to be sure, but not all. “What were you arguing about?” he asks a group of teachers (Mark 9). “Do you want to get well?” he asks the invalid at Bethesda (John 5). In a crowd: “Who touched my clothes?” (Mark 5). One on one with a Samaritan woman: “Will you give me a drink?” (John 4).

If Jesus, the sinless Son of God, was influenced by the fallen people around him, how much more can we learn from the people in our own lives?


This includes the difficult people. As my minister says, the people we find it most challenging to love often provide the greatest opportunities to become more like Jesus. The employer sharing a less than stellar opinion of my work, the neighbor letting his dogs roam (and more) in my front yard, the church choir soprano proudly and loudly warbling off key—each one has allowed me to practice the graceful art of keeping my opinions to myself (until I publish them in a national magazine).

God can use the frustrating folks, and the frustratingly oblivious ones, as our 101 curriculum for patience, kindness—and wisdom.

Of course we must weight the feedback we receive from both our friends and our critics; just because the insight comes from a mentor or authority figure doesn’t make it accurate. But when we combine the counsel of trusted friends with our own reading of Scripture and connection to a church community, we are refusing insular thinking, accepting correction, and opening ourselves to growth.


At the end of my lunch with Kyle, he expressed his belief, confirmed again during his time in Africa, that God wants to be known in relationship with us.

“I’m not convinced,” I countered. “He seems to hide himself from me most of the time.”

“He doesn’t seem to be hiding now, does he?” Kyle said. “You have serious trust issues with God but even you have to admit he’s showing up.”

He is indeed, through the grace and truth shared by fellow travelers. Their wisdom is slowly helping me to grow in wisdom as well.

Two questions: Don’t I have the coolest friends ever? How are you growing like Jesus grew?

church fatigue

I have a confession to make.

I’m tired of going to church.


After 34 years of weekly attendance I’m bored, bored with long sermons and the two uptempo/one slow song liturgy of our megachurch worship. I’m bored with gymnatoriums and rambling communion meditations and the tasteless cardboard bread pellets that follow. I’m bored with announcement times for ladies luncheons and small groups and choir sign-ups. I’m bored with the same cliched phrases in the same spoken prayers offered at the same routine times.

I’m bored.

I know all the reasons to attend church services. But honestly, most Sundays at noon I think about other ways I could have spent the morning. Reading the New York Times with a pot of coffee, or hiking through the woods, or enjoying restorative sleep, or putzing around my kitchen trying a new recipe—these all seem more fun, productive, and restful than spending several hours at church.


It’s not about being entertained. As Brett McCracken wrote in his great Wall Street Journal article last week, 70% of adults 18-22 aren’t leaving church because it’s not “cool” enough.

“As a twentysomething, I can say with confidence that when it comes to church, we don’t want cool as much as we want real,” he writes. “If we are interested in Christianity in any sort of serious way, it is not because it’s easy or trendy or popular. It’s because Jesus himself is appealing and what he says rings true.”

So I’m not looking for a slicker sermon series or a faux-hawked worship leader or designer coffee in the back lobby. And for those of you who are my parents (hi guys!), I’m not pulling an Anne Rice and rejecting the Church universal or leaving the faith. I’m not even having a crisis of faith.


I’m just bored.


Because I also believe you make a commitment to one local church and invest in community with those believers long-term, I’m not going to start shopping for a new church. Besides, all those churches would also have long sermons and rambling prayers and worship leaders in skinny jeans. That’s the problem.

I also believe the writer of Hebrews was wise when he cautioned, “Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another.” I just don’t find weekly church attendance that encouraging anymore. In addition to its predictability, I have plenty of friends who also attend church each weekend and then get drunk, live with their boyfriends, or swear the air blue. In the south, church attendance is traditional. It is a habit, and one that doesn’t in itself produce life change.


So I’m sincerely unsure of the solution. Church, with two songs/greeting/awkward handshakes/one song/communion/offering/sermon/two songs/dismissal, is how our culture does Christianity. And I’m ready for something else.

Can you relate? How do you deal with “church fatigue”?

new to you friday–call waiting

I’m re-posting this one partly because I still hear, almost weekly, comments about how “everything happens for a reason” and “God has a plan for your life” and I continue to question the theology, but mostly because the comments on the original post were so great. What do you think?

———————————————————————

A few weeks ago, Dave Ferguson summarized Frederick Buechner’s famous quote as his Facebook and Twitter status: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”


I wrestle with this perspective because I have yet to find my “deep gladness.”

Believe me, I’ve tried—I’ve prayed, fasted, and evaluated my spiritual gifts. (For the record, I don’t know what those are, either.) I’ve “first, broken all the rules” and “now, discovered my strengths.” I even participated in a very thorough and helpful SIMA analysis. (At the end the consultant told me he thought my profile and giftedness is the same as Martha Stewart’s except I’m not a jerk. Except he didn’t say jerk.)

I care about things; I’m all for clean water in Africa and ending urban poverty and planting new churches. I like most animals more than many humans and I’m good at growing tomatoes. But I wouldn’t say drilling wells or starting churches or protecting animals or feeding the poor (even with my produce) are consuming passions.


For years I thought it was just a matter of pointing the flashlight at the right corner of my soul—that a latent passion would spring into life if I strained the eyes of my heart into the dark. I remember saying in college, when I first hit my head against this wall while trying to choose a major, “If God would just TELL me what he wants me to do with my life, I would do it. Anything. He knows I will. Why won’t he tell me?”

I thought everyone had felt a call on their life and had a passion for something and struggled with burdens on their hearts during seasons of ministry and other such Christianese crap. (Perhaps the Martha Stewart comment has some truth.)

And I think some people do, just as I think God probably does handpick spouses for a few people. What safety, what comfort in those thoughts! But how much scarier to ponder the (much more biblical) feedback I received from one wise mentor: What if there are many professions we can pursue and people we could marry? What if God gives us guidelines for making the decisions but loves us enough to give us freedom? What if he’ll be pleased with any choice as long as we honor him while living it out?

I re-posted the quote on my own Facebook and Twitter pages with the question, “What if you have no great passion?” And another wise friend commented, “The Bible says to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. Love God and love others. We make it way too hard.”

I don’t think Buechner is a bad guy (or Dave, for that matter—he’s a great guy). But I have some problems with American Christianity’s myth that God will map out our lives for us. Perhaps his great gladness is watching us chart the course for ourselves.

step of faith

Apparently my friends and I don’t have enough excitement in our lives, because this past Saturday we paid good money to strap our procreative areas into safety harnesses and zipline across metal cords 85 feet above the ground.

Each of the nine lines was longer! faster! higher! than the previous ones; reaching the last three required climbing up steps pounded in the side of a tree or inching across a rope bridge. Once we arrived, our very nice guide Peter would unhook one safety harness (that prevented falling from the tree) and hook another (that prevented death after you jump off).

Despite my fear of heights I was enjoying the experience…..until #8. After successfully navigating the ladder and pulling myself up three steep steps, I stood, appropriately hooked/unhooked, contemplating the drop in front of my small wooden perch and the forested gorge I was about to sail through.

Another moment.


One more second.


“Are you…….” This from Peter.

“I’m going.”


I walked to the platform’s edge. Deep breath. Sign of the cross and a kiss of my thumb for extra luck.


A step forward……………………………


Air. Quiet. (No, I didn’t scream.) Leaves rustling, the cable zipping on its track, flying through the trees, picking up speed, delivering me to the steep bank of logs on the other side.

After all that fear, the ride was over too soon and I landed safely and smiling. It took just one step to launch me forward—but what a difficult step.


Later, unhooked for good, I thought about another group who faced a more challenging decision. In Joshua 3, the Israelites need to cross the Jordan River to claim the promised land, and God tells the priests carrying the ark to lead the people into the water.

Joshua, in what must have felt like one of the hardest sells in history, told the priests that as soon as they set foot in the Jordan, all the water flowing downstream would stop.

“Now the Jordan is at flood stage all during harvest,” the story continues in verse 15. “Yet as soon as the priests who carried the ark reached the Jordan and their feet touched the water’s edge, the water from upstream stopped flowing. It piled up in a heap a great distance away, at a town called Adam in the vicinity of Zarethan, while the water flowing down to the Salt Sea was completely cut off. So the people crossed over opposite Jericho. The priests who carried the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the middle of the Jordan, while all Israel passed by until the whole nation had completed the crossing on dry ground.”

My step off the zipline ledge was no great risk; I had faith in my safety harness and had seen others successfully complete the course. My guide stood next to me, physically present to provide help. And on the very slim chance I injured myself, a competent doctor (or at least the semi-competent one covered by my paltry insurance) would be able to ice a bruise or mend a sprained ankle.

But these brave priests faced much higher stakes. They had no harness or safety rope if the water’s undertow tugged them down. They had no example to follow. And if they messed up, if Joshua was wrong or they failed to follow the directions accurately or God changed his mind, the entire nation could die.

God invites us to be co-creators of the world and its history. He will meet us, help us, maybe even bring moments of quiet and joy along the way, but he often asks us to take the first step without any guarantees. More than I would like, traveling with God still means trusting a Guide I don’t see and don’t understand, who may not respond when I’d like or in the way I expect.


On Saturday I learned several things: I hold my breath when I get scared. I look less than ravishing in a helmet. And first steps are the most difficult—but maybe the most important.

Where do you need to take a step of faith in your life? What’s holding you back?

what’s saving you?

In her memoir Leaving Church, Barbara Brown Taylor writes,

Many years ago now, when I was invited to speak at a church gathering, my host said, “Tell us what is saving your life now.” It was such a good question that I have made a practice of asking others to answer it even as I continue to answer it myself. Salvation is so much more than many of its proponents would have us believe. In the Bible, human beings experience God’s salvation when peace ends war, when food follows famine, when health supplants sickness and freedom trumps oppression. Salvation is a word for the divine spaciousness that comes to human beings in all the tight places where their lives are at risk, regardless of how they got there or whether they know God’s name. Sometimes it comes as an extended human hand and sometimes as a bolt from the blue, but either way it opens a door in what looked for all the world like a wall. This is the way of life, and God alone knows how it works.

She goes on to describe her answer to this question: teaching, living in relationship with creation on her farm, observing the Sabbath, encountering God in other people, and “committing myself to the task of becoming fully human” are saving her life as she writes the book.


Now before you compose testy comments, I understand that only Jesus truly saves us. But as Taylor notes, he often uses other people, circumstances, and tangible blessings to bring “divine spaciousness.” If we accept salvation as a journey instead of simply a once-and-done destination, it follows that God can use anything he wants to open doors along the way.

Even a casual reader of my blog over the last year would recognize some of my own “tight places.” I continue to struggle with calling and purpose, with prayer, with church as usual, and with God.

I welcome these struggles because, as author and psychologist Henry Cloud says, “Non-growing people are very comfortable.” I’d rather be growing than avoiding uncomfortable tight spots—but, like Taylor, I appreciate lower-case-s salvation along the way.


So right now……

–Good books are saving me. In addition to Leaving Church, I’ve been reading or re-reading Prayer by Philip Yancey, The Writing Life by Annie Dillard, The Divine Commodity by Skye Jethani, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller and Angry Conversations with God by Susan Isaacs. Good fiction is helpful, as well, for its lessons and its escapes. Recently I’ve liked The Help by Kathryn Stockett, The Postmistress by Sarah Blake and Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry. Two months ago that list would have looked entirely different and two months from now it will again—and so will the way I think about life.

–Therapy is saving me. Hopefully we are long past the days when seeing a counselor carries a stigma. I’ve worked with mine on and off over the last several years and she’s immensely helpful in pointing out unhealthy patterns and suggesting new approaches. I don’t know anyone so well-adjusted and neurosis-free that they couldn’t benefit from therapy at some point. If you think you’re that person, you really need it.

–Music is saving me, as it always does. Right now it’s Andrew Peterson (as it always is) and, ahem, the songs from Glee. What? They’re fun and joyful and generally not too silly.

–Driving is saving me, preferably driving with music. I get my best ideas and insights in the car. But I will say there are a great number of very slow drivers in Nashville, many of them proudly displaying Dave Ramsey bumper stickers. Someone should conduct a sociological research project on this phenomenon. Are financially conservative people also cautious drivers? Are they just trying to save gas? Is there a Financial Peace project meant solely to drive me crazy? Someone needs to investigate.

–Gardening is saving me. Nothing else I’m doing right now gives me as much satisfaction as digging, weeding, and planting, or seeing the tidy flowerbeds and growing vegetables that result. During one bad week recently I shoveled up a second part of my yard and created a shade garden, because I’d run out of plantable space before I ran out of the need to plant.


Christ saves us, but uses the world he created to help us grow. What is saving your life now?

new to you friday–must see

Okay, yes, the point of “New to you Friday” is to invite new readers into the discussion of blog posts from two years ago, not two weeks. But I thought of something else I wanted to say about this, and it’s my blog. So neener neener.

Last night I gathered with a group of creative people from my church–a playwright, an author, a children’s therapist, a poet, a professor, an actress and more. We ate heaping plates of sweet corn salad and my famous orzo with roasted vegetables (I declare my recipes “famous” if I’ve made them more than once) and discussed faith and art and the intersection between the two.

At one point, David, the organizer of the evening, asked each of us to share why the conversation mattered to us personally; why (besides the orzo) we showed up.

I found myself telling them about Marina Abramovic and her performance at MOMA and the reactions of the people who participated with her. Her exhibit was titled “The Artist is Present” and, as noted in the original post, that was the power of the piece—she was fully present, seeing and acknowledging each person who sat across from her. Although she didn’t speak or interact, she was there, inviting the other person to also be present and honest in that moment.

And I realized that’s why I think the arts matter to people of faith—because they point us to the Giver of all creativity, who, frankly, sometimes acts like Abramovic. Usually I want Him to talk and respond and fix my problems—to do. Usually He simply wants to sit quietly with me—to be. In those times, music and literature and visual arts remind us that while he may be silent, The Artist is always present.

————————————————————————————

I spent this past holiday weekend in New York City with my brother Geoff and sister-in-law Lisa, having more fun and eating more food than I could include here. (Oh, okay, twist my arm: picnics in Central Park and along Long Island City’s waterfront, walks through impeccably manicured gardens at dusk, tours of subway cars from the 50s, the Brooklyn Flea Market, and possibly the best cafe au lait ever).

But what I will remember long after my shin splints fade away and I work off the goat cheese omelets is Sunday afternoon at the Museum of Modern Art. Marina Abramovic’s special exhibition “The Artist is Present” was in its final weekend run, and we spent much of the afternoon viewing it (and much of the evening discussing it).

Abramovic is a performance artist who has scrubbed meat and blood off cow bones to protest the slaughter of war, taken mind-altering pills to explore unconsciousness during a performance, and fasted from food for 12 days while living on a shelf open to the public in a New York gallery.

But “The Artist is Present” included no such spectacle—instead, the 80-day performance simply featured Abramovic sitting silently, gazing into the eyes of a person sitting across from her. From the moment the museum opened each day until the last crowds left each evening, Abramovic sat without speaking and gave each person, in turn, her complete and focused attention.

And thousands of New Yorkers lined up each morning for the privilege of being in the chair across from her. Some smiled or giggled self-consciously. Some returned the unbroken eye contact. Several wept. Until the last two days of the performance, each individual could sit as long or as little as he wanted. Some stayed just a few minutes, others remained in the chair for hours.


In an interview before the exhibit, Abramovic said,

It’s really the idea of creating a moment of presence…… I want to create a stillness in the middle of the tornado, with just a tiny little table and two little chairs. And the chair opposite me is always empty, and any member of the audience is welcome to come and engage in the gaze with me. There will not be talking, there will not be anything, just the motionless gaze.

The eyes are the windows of the soul. You can see so much. And it will create an energy, a luminosity around it. The more time goes past with this piece, the more the piece will go where it should go – into that timeless state. It’s about the here and now. It’s not about future or past. It’s just about the present moment. I want to construct many present moments during the 600 hours, and be available and vulnerable for anybody in the audience. This will create a trust so that the other person looking at me can also be available and vulnerable, and we can create a contact which is very direct and very human.

This vulnerable human connection made the piece irresistible. Despite the huge closing-weekend crowds and the presence of two of my favorite Van Goghs on level 4, I returned to MOMA’s atrium three times during our three-hour visit. I watched Abramovic, I speculated on the stories of the people sitting across from her, and I considered the lessons this piece can teach us.

Because like all good art, this raises questions about the times in which we live and the timeless components of the human condition. Abramovic has said one reason she wanted to perform the work was to create a “center” of peace in the midst of our country’s largest and arguably busiest city.


But, of course, the hurried pace of life extends beyond New York, and so does another insight of this piece—people are ravenous for human connection.

Sure, some people sat across from Abramovic to say they had been part of one of the famous artist’s most ambitious works, but that’s not why dozens wiped away tears, or stayed for five hours, or returned several times. It’s not why the show has received worldwide attention or why MOMA’s live video feed of the experience received more than 800,000 hits.

By sitting in the chair you also received another person’s undivided attention. You became the focus of another person for as long as you needed it. You participated in something not only public but deeply intimate.

When is the last time someone gave you their attention–no cell phone glances, no mid-conversation texting, no checking the time, no looking over your shoulder for someone more interesting? When is the last time you gave that gift to someone else? The real lesson of “The Artist is Present” is how un-present so many of us are, to our own emotions and to the moment and to the people around us. Abramovic’s art reminds us that in a city propelled by image, in a nation focused on appearances, many people simply need to be seen.

new to you friday–on “Prayer” and prayer

Saying a book by Philip Yancey is one of his best is like choosing a “best” flavor of Graeter’s ice cream or a “best” Beethoven symphony. They’re all pretty terrific. But I’m currently reading Yancey’s “Prayer” and it deserves the accolade. If you haven’t read it, snag a copy and let me know what you think—about all of it, and about what it has to say regarding the questions raised here.

I’m only halfway through the book, but so far I still come down on the side of this post—that God is more concerned with process, with the journey, with who we are becoming than in answering specific prayers in specific ways. He does some of the latter, to be sure, but I don’t think it’s the main reason to pray. What do you think?

——————————————————————————————–

This weekend some good friends came to visit and I planned to give them my bed and sleep on the couch. One of the friends is quite allergic to Louie the Wonder Cat and as I changed the sheets I found myself praying, “God, please don’t let the cat hair bother him.”

It was an almost automatic prayer, conditioned by years of being told that God acts on such details.

“No prayer is too small,” Sunday school teachers exhorted. “He counts the hairs on your head and cares about everything.”

I would like to think that’s true, and many days I do. Paul did, after all, remind the Philippians to “in everything…present your requests to God.” Other days I question it—not his care for my life, exactly, but his preoccupation with its minutia.

As an outgrowth of the popular Jesus-as-best-friend/boyfriend theology (“I am so in love with you” goes one popular chorus), we assume He is waiting with bated breath to hear the details of our days, the small annoyances and happy moments. We pray for parking spaces to appear, for headaches to fade, for missing keys and homework to be found.


And yet.

I return again to the familiar “Lord’s Prayer,” in which Jesus prays for bigger-ticket items: the glory of God’s name, the manifestation of His kingdom and His will, the provision for basic needs, the rescue from sin and temptation.

Perhaps the allergy attack, the trek across the parking lot, or the nagging headache would provide more exercise for our patience and perseverance muscles, and thereby serve more kingdom-building purpose, than the answer we seek. Maybe our focus needs to shift from the momentary to the eternal. And just possibly God is more concerned with our character than our convenience.


I suspect that, like so many things of God, the answer cannot be fully known in this life.

I believe the prayer of a small child for what seems (to his parent) a meaningless trifle may carry great weight with God, who knows the child’s faith. I believe the same prayer uttered by the parent, who is called to put aside childish ways and think as an adult (1 Cor. 13), may be viewed quite differently.

So I’ll acknowledge that small is relative. But recently I’ve been embarrassed to pray those prayers, myself, when bigger, thy-kingdom-come prayers aren’t crossing my lips. I’m an adopted daughter of the king and called to active participation in the kingdom bringing, the sin forgiving, the temptation avoiding. That’s plenty to keep me busy. So while God may know the number of hairs on my head, I won’t be praying about my next haircut.