Traitor

I hummed to myself, smiling at the little boys racing around my legs, and wove my way through the chattering laughing crowd. A bright fruit stand caught my eye, and I paused, swinging the basket on my arm. I glanced up, trying to decide how much I wanted to spend, and something up near the top of the street caught my glance. It was just one figure, trudging along, but I froze as I recognized him.
            It was Mark.
            I started running, skirting old women and talkative merchants, dodging young mothers balancing babies and baskets on their hips, avoiding unsteady carts and skittish pack mules.
            “Mark!” I screamed, waving my arms. His head snapped up, and he scanned the crowd. “Mark!” I screamed again, snatching off my headscarf and waving it over my head. He saw me then, and he stopped where he was. Not thinking, not pausing, just shocked and overjoyed to see him, I burst out of the crowd, still running, and flung myself at him. Just like old times, he caught me around the waist, but as soon as he touched me, I knew my mistake. He was taller, stronger, bigger than when I’d last seen him. While he’d been gone, he’d become a man, and I, a woman. We were no longer children, and there was no propriety in my actions.
            He spun me around, like he’d always done, then set me down. I stepped back, flushed and embarrassed, and draped my scarf back over my hair.
            “It’s good to see you,” I managed. His eyes flicked to my face for a second, then back down the ground, and I realized he’d not smiled once. Nor was he looking at me; instead, his eyes roved over the buildings, the sky, the market, the ground—anywhere but me. I flushed more deeply. I’ve shamed him, I realized, and I dropped my eyes as well. “I’m sorry if I offended you, sir,” I said, my voice low. Mark made a sound, deep in his throat—either a sob or a gasp, I couldn’t tell—and I glanced up at him.
            “Don’t call me that, Sarah,” he muttered. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he stared out toward the horizon. I felt my temper rise and my patience failed.
            “Why not?” I burst out, my anger flashing through my heart. “You’ve grown up while you’ve been gone! We’re no longer children! I owe you respect, as any woman owes a man respect!”
            I stopped, shocked at my lack of restraint, and covered my mouth with one hand. Shouting at him was something I would have done far in the past. But Mark just laughed, sounding bitter.
            “That’s what you think? Well, let me tell you what I’ve really become. I left them, Sarah—abandoned them when they began to need me most. I did exactly what I did with Jesus, only this time—” He lifted anguished eyes to meet mine. “This time,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t go back.” Again, he stared at the ground, kicking at the dust. “I was more of a man then, as a child, than I am now.” His voice was sad, and I stared at him, silent and devastated. He looked up and smiled at me, his eyes sharp, his lips tight. “Well?” he asked. Slowly, I shook my head.
            “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quiet. “I’m so sorry, Mark.” Surprise crossed his face, and his shoulders jerked. Then he frowned.
            “Sorry for what, Sarah? Sorry for a traitor?” he snapped. I shook my head again, feeling helpless.
            “No, not that at all.”
            “Then what?” I’d never seen him that impatient, and I wasn’t sure what to do except tell him the truth.
            “I’m sorry you failed like that.” My words were blunt, and I expected him to be furious. Instead, I watched in horror as his face crumpled. He turned away quickly, but I had already glimpsed the tears on his face. “Mark,” I murmured, reaching toward him, but he jerked his arm away.
            “I don’t need your pity.” His strangled voice belied his words, and I bit my tongue. He wiped his eyes, then faced me. “Goodbye, Sarah,” he said, his eyes hard and cold. As he began to walk away, I dropped my basket and grabbed his arm. He stopped, refusing to look at me, but I shook him slightly.
            “Where are you going?”
            “Home.”
            “And you’re staying there?”
            “No.”
            “Mark, your mother will be—”
            “Don’t tell me what she will or won’t be!” His voice was sharp and bitter, and I released his arm. “She’ll be glad, Sarah, when she finds out what I did. She’ll be glad I’m leaving.”
            “You’re leaving the city?” I gasped.
            “Did you think I could stay here after what I’ve done?”
            “Mark—”
            “No.” He faced me again, putting his hands on my shoulders and shaking me. “Don’t say anything else.” For a moment, we stared at each other—I , trying not to cry; he, just staring at me with empty eyes. Then he took his hands off my shoulders and jogged away. I stood still, as if rooted to the ground, trying to gather myself.
            “Mark!” I cried. He didn’t stop. I tried again, louder—“Mark!” Soon he was out of sight in the winding streets, and I was left alone. My mind reeled with what he’d told me, and I tried to decide what to do. Tears blinded me, but I wiped my eyes hard, stooped to pick up my basket, and began running. He’d said he was going home. My only chance was to beat him there and make him stay. He was fast, but I knew strange little alleys and back ways that I knew he’d not think of. My urgency pushed me faster than I’d ever run before, and it was only a few minutes before I burst into Mary’s house.
            “Sarah!” Mary leapt up from the loom, her eyes concerned. “What is it, child?”
            “Mark,” I panted. “Where is Mark?” Mary’s eyes widened, and she took my hand.
            “Mark’s not been home for months, child,” she said in a low voice. “Surely you remember that.”
            “Yes, yes, I know. But I saw him in the market, and—and—”
            “You saw him?” Mary gasped. Before I could open my mouth to answer, there was a knock at the door. I grabbed Mary by the shoulders.
            “Don’t let him leave,” I whispered, my voice fierce. “No matter what he says, make him stay.” Mary stared at me, looking like she thought I was crazy, then went to answer the door. I heard her scream Mark’s name, then burst into tears. I dropped my things in a corner of the room and sat down to wait for them to come in. In a few moments, Mary led Mark into the room, laughing and crying and trying to talk. I met Mark’s eyes and nodded to him.
            “Sarah.” He returned my nod as his mother hugged him again.
            “I can’t believe you’re back, safe and sound!” she sobbed, burying her face against his neck. “Oh, my son, how I’ve worried about you!”
            “You needn’t have worried, Mother.” His voice was still as cold as it had been, and I shivered. Mark pulled back from his mother, and she stepped back, confusion in her eyes, as he continued. “At the first sign of trouble, your son showed himself for what he is—a coward concerned with only the safety of his own hide.” Mary’s eyes widened, and she flashed a glance at me. “Oh, so Sarah told you already,” Mark snapped, glaring at me. “I see.”
            “No,” Mary gasped. “She did not. She—she only said to keep you here and not let you leave. I—I didn’t know why . . .”
            “But now you do?” Mark cut in. “Well, Mother, I knew what you’d say—I knew what everyone would say—before I even came back. I only stopped to get my money, a few extra changes of clothing, some odds and ends, and then I’ll—”
            “John ben-Mark.” Mary’s voice was quiet, but both Mark and I froze at her tone. I saw Mark pale at his full name, and he dipped his head.
            “Yes, Mother?” His voice was meek as his mother glared up at him.
            “If you think I’d even think of letting you leave—” she seethed, her eyes furious. “John ben-Mark, don’t you know me? Don’t you know the Lord you serve at all?” Mark paled even more, and dropped back a step.
            “What does that have to do with this?” he muttered, licking his lips. Mary planted her fists on her hips.
            “Everything!” she cried. “John ben-Mark, did you not learn anything during your time with Jesus?”
            “Mary—” I tried to interrupt, but she whirled on me and I shut my mouth.
            “Will you excuse me and my son, please?” she asked, her voice furious, and I understood she wasn’t angry at me. “We have some talking to do.” Reluctantly, I stood up and made my way to the door, stopping only to pick up my headscarf. Once I was outside, I walked a few steps away and sat down on a neighbor’s step, resting my chin on my hands and my elbows on my knees.
            It seemed like hours before the door opened and Mark stepped out. I scrambled to my feet and began to speak, but was stopped by the sight of the traveling bag that swung at his hip.
            “So you’re really leaving,” I whispered, tears choking me, and he nodded. I stepped forward, stretching out my hands. “But why didn’t Mary—”
            “Oh, it’s not for lack of her trying,” he told me. “She tried, all right—talked up one wall and down the other, but after all that . . . she agreed to let me go.”
            “Mark . . .”
            “Don’t talk to me about it, Sarah.” He lifted one hand in warning, then jerked his head. “Walk with me?” The question was so plaintive, so much like other questions he’d asked when we were children, that I simply nodded. We fell into step together and walked in silence for a few paces. My mind whirled with arguments to give him, questions to pose to him, clever persuasions I could present. But no—I could see from the stubborn tilt of his chin that his mind was set. As we drew closer to the city gates, the streets became more and more crowded, until finally, our walk had become a slow trudging gait. Just as we reached the gate, I stepped in front of Mark and laid one hand on his arm, forcing him to stop.
            “Won’t you stay?” I kept my tone gentle, so gentle he had to lean down to hear what I said, and I saw him waver for a moment. Then he set his jaw and shook his head.
            “Don’t try to convince me,” he said, his voice sharp. “I know what I did; I know what I am. I can’t stay here, I can’t watch the eyes shifting away from me, hear the tongues wagging behind hands, know what people say and think. I can’t do it, Sarah. I can’t bear it.”
            “Do you forget what I was?” My voice was quiet, but Mark recoiled as if I’d slapped him.
            “Sarah, this isn’t about you.”
            “You’re right, it’s not. But things I’ve done—” I couldn’t go on, and Mark touched my hand.
            “Don’t talk about it. It’s over. You know you’re forgiven.”
            “How can you say that to me?” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. “How can you say that to me, when you won’t believe it for yourself?”
            For a long moment, Mark stared at me. Then he bent forward and kissed my forehead, as if I was his blood sister.
            “I have to go, Sarah,” he whispered, resting his head against mine. “I just . . . I just need to leave for now.”
            “Go in peace, then.” I was weeping now, and not even trying to hide it. “Go in peace and return safely to us.” For a moment, Mark was silent. Then he stepped back and looked me in the eyes.
            “Goodbye, Sarah.” His words were simple and held no promise, but neither did he refuse my plea. As he turned and walked away, I stood and watched him and cried. My tears were not for myself and his mother; my tears were for my friend who believed there was no forgiveness for what he’d done.
            I trudged back to Mary’s house and slipped inside. As soon as Mary saw me, she opened her arms and I fell into her embrace. We needed no words, but simply stood and cried together. As my tears slowed, I wiped my eyes.
            “Why, Mary?” I whispered. “Why does he have to leave?”
            “Oh, Sarah,” she murmured, stroking my hair back from my face. “I told him he didn’t have to. I tried to remind him of the love and forgiveness Jesus offers. But for now, he can’t see it. And so I agreed that he could leave. It won’t be forever, child—” She hugged me tightly again. “But for now, this is what he needs to do. So I let him go.”
            “You’ll miss him so,” I sobbed into her shoulder, my tears bursting forth again. “I’ll miss him,” I choked out. She nodded, her own tears dripping down her face.
            “Yes,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “Yes, I will. But I know sometime, when he realizes what forgiveness really is, when he remembers what love has done for him, he’ll be back.” She pulled back, smiling into my face, and nodded, wiping my tears away. “Yes,” she whispered in my ear. “He’ll be back.” And she hugged me once more.

surviving the martyrs

It’s just another Jew.

    Oh God, oh God, oh God—why, why, why?

Better to let them have this one than to lose control of the nation.

    Why him, why . . .
            . . . my lover. . .
        . . . my father . . .
                    . . . my brother . . .
    . . . my hero . . .
            . . . my son . . .
    . . . why, God?

Let them think they’ve regained some control.

    Speak for me!

It was just a Jew.

    Defend my cause!

No one even knows his family name.

    Protectors of Israel—a lie!  Carry out the vengeance due to me!

It was quick.

I heard his screams.
            I heard his bones crunching, snapping, shattering.
        I heard the stones thunk against his flesh.
I saw the blood spurt up from his wounds.
        I saw the wild agony flashing in his eyes as he fell.
            I saw the glee on the faces of his murderers.
I felt the raw scream rise in my own throat.
        I felt the slap of a Pharisee, shoving me back from rushing in to save him.
    I felt the dust coating my tongue and throat as I sobbed my horror to the skies.
                I was there.
    I saw him, meek.
        I heard him, forgiving.
            I felt his spirit, shuddering, rise from his body
                        though they would not let me cradle him.
                    I watched him die
                                    slowly
                            agonizingly
                                     alone.

 No one cares.

   My life is empty.
            Who will care for me, protect me?
        Who will teach me?
    I want nothing else but to die, as he did—die and be with him.
                I am alone.
            I am angry.
        I am hurt.
            Who will hear me when I cry?

Stepping in will only stir up the embers of revolt.

    Why did no one stop it?  I saw them, lounging at the gates.  I heard them, shouting and mocking and goading and heckling and laughing.  I ran, begging, to them, needing help, but they shoved me back and shouted words I didn't know.
    I know they saw.  I know they heard.  I know they knew.  Why did they not stop it?

It was just another Jew.

    Is there a protector left for me, now that he is gone?
        I have been failed by all that was supposed to protect me—
                my priests
                    my teachers
            my government.
                    They all ignored my pleas.
            Does anyone hear me?
                Does anyone cry with me?
                    Does anyone care?

I do.

I am the LORD your God.

I hear your cries.  I know your pain.  I share your tears.

And I am here.

I am

the Helper of the orphan

a Father of the fatherless
a Judge for widows.

I support the fatherless and the widow.

I execute justice for the orphan and the widow.

I am here,

cradling you in My everlasting arms.

I will never leave you.
I will never forsake you.

I will never fail you.

I love you with an everlasting love.

I am here.

Trust Me.

Love, in library terms

A List of Useful Hints for Everyone Interested in Showing Affection to Library Workers

1. Speak in an appropriately low tone of voice.  Not only will they appreciate that you respect the library quiet rules and do not need to be reminded of this simplest of concepts, low voices convey intimacy and tenderness.
2. Try to look things up by yourself.  This way they will know that you are an independent thinker, an independent worker, and not one of those irritating dimwits who says, "Well, I thought it'd be easier if I just asked you to find it for me" (real quote from a real student).  It also demonstrates thoughtfulness and a respect that their time is valuable and probably has better uses than doing something that you can/should do for yourself. *NOTE* Don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it, but try to utilize the online catalog, databases, etc., before seeking help.  This leads quite nicely to our next point, which is . . .
3. If you don't know what on earth you're doing, ask a library worker to help you. (They can tell anyway; you might as well admit it.)  Often,  library workers are noted by their supervisors for how frequently and skillfully they assist patrons.  However, since patrons often a) refuse to use the library, b) refuse to ask for help but instead ask for service (see #2, above), or c) insist on being independent but useless, it makes it difficult for library workers to help people.  In addition, assisting a patron often demands the library worker coming and standing very close to them while showing them how to use whatever search program or whatnot on the computer.  Just saying.
4. Hide in the stacks and come strike up a conversation while they're reshelving books.  This lets them know a) you notice them enough to see what areas they've been working in that day, b) you like their company enough to make a little extra effort to spend time with them, c) you comprehend the utter boredom and monotony and loneliness that is reshelving, and d) you enjoy hanging out among shelves of books.  These are all very good things.  *NOTE*  Don't do this too often or for long periods of time, or they'll start to be nervous about spending time socializing while they're on the clock.  And try to avoid being a stalker ("I've actually been tracking your every move for the last two and a half hours." [not a real quote, thank groodness])
5. Always try to find the exact call numbers of the books you want.  "I'd like to get the book for Professor ---'s class . . the one that's on reserve."  (real quote from a real student)  First off, that sentence doesn't specify the book title or anything else.  Maybe there are fourteen books on reserve for that class.  Secondly, most professors utilize the book-reserve option.  The library worker has probably (read: most definitely) not memorized what books are for what professor and for what class of that professor.  (See #2 above).
6. Do not eat in the library.  This not only makes the library worker's job easier in that they don't have to clean up your food mess, but it lets them know you care about respecting rules and respecting books (double points!).  Plus, you're probably way more attractive when you don't have cookie crumbs in the corners of your mouth.
7. Try to avoid using the library for the last half-hour before closing. If you're already in the library at that point, it's okay to stay.  However, a patron staggering into the library, bearing a huge backpack and lugging armloads of books, is the most disheartening sight a groggy library worker (who may be finishing a nine-hour shift, for all you know) could see.  Don't do it, just like you don't go to Subway fifteen before they close. (Oh, wait, I'm the only one who really cares about that . . .)  If it's absolutely imperative that you use the library at exactly 10:30 PM at least have the common decency to apologize.  Don't try to slink in like they can't see you if you don't make eye contact; it just makes matters worse.
8. Look them in the eyes.  Smile.  Thank them.  Working at a library doesn't make a person a cyborg.  Library work is repetitive, it is methodical, and it does require a sort of type-A personality.  But that doesn't mean it's any less irritating-- or hurtful-- to be addressed or treated like a piece of the furniture.  Plus most library workers are really fun.  Or really attractive at least.
9. Be playful and engaging.  A lot of people who come into libraries are really focused scholars who would rather read encyclopedias than run around outside or have friends or sleep or eat.  Or breathe.  There's nothing wrong with that, but sometimes library workers wish someone would just ask them a silly personal question or start up a hilariously rolicking conversation.  It's okay to start serious, scholarly conversations with library workers, but remember that working in a library doesn't limit a person's interests to books and ancient writers.  It does probably point to a rather unusual love of books (or libraries), so introducing subjects of that kind is perfectly acceptable and makes you look smart.  Or at very least, it shows them you're willing and eager to learn about subjects near and dear to their hearts.
10. For the love of all things holy, do NOT reshelve your own books.  If you don't understand this without any explanation, you are clearly unfit material to be trying to even befriend a library worker.  Please leave.

No indeed--he shall be called John

         Baby soul, already so sensitive to the moving of the LORD, how will I ever let you go?  Coming so late in my life, you have brought before-unknown honor on my grey head.  I don’t know what your face looks like, yet I love you already.  You will be a mighty man, I know, one of the righteous prohpets.  Yes, I know you will be all the angel said you would be.  My God cannot lie.  You will be long-remembered, my son, and your life will be a testimony to the greatness of our God.
            Oh, my child—will I live to see you blossom into all that you will be?  Will your father?  Already his gait has slowed and his back has stooped.  His eyes have weakened; his hearing has dimmed.  I feel the same aches and pains in my own body.  Even now, as I bear you, I wonder if I will even be able to endure your delivery.  I ache to see and memorize your long-awaited face.  But if this is not to be, I know these things.
            You will be great in the sight of the LORD, and you will drink no wine or liquor, and you, already, have been filled with the Holy Spirit!
            You will turn many of the sons of Israel back to the LORD our God.  It is you who will go before the LORD in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers back to the children, as said the prophet Malachi, and the disobedient to the attitude of the righteous, so as to make ready a people prepared for the LORD.
            So told the angel to your father.  The words are seared into his memory, and imprinted on my own heart.
            I thrill to these words, telling me who my son will be, yet I also fear them.  It is not an easy road you will walk; it is paved with trouble, as were the ways of the prophets of old.  Nonetheless, my son, I know you will walk it well.  You can do no less.
            Above what the angel promised us, you must know something else.  I love you, dear child, already with a tenderness and passion which frighten me.  No matter if I live to glimpse your face, I love you even now.  Do not ever forget this, even as you do not forget who the LORD has called you to be.
            I feel you stirring within me, little one, and the movement floods me with joy.  You are the LORD’s, yes, but for now . . . you are mine.
            My darling son (my son! words I’d believed I’d never be able to say)—how I long to meet you!  Know this—you are much beloved, much desired, long awaited, and chosen by God.  The next few months cannot pass quickly enough.

Your impatient mother,
                        Elizabeth

Invitation

If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . .
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
~Shel Silverstein

I love this poem so much, but not, I think, for its face value.  I think what it is that attracts me so much to these few lines is the simple warmth exuded from each word.  "So what?" it seems to say.  "I don't care who you are, what you've done, where you've been.  Do we share this passion and desire for story?  Then let us be brothers."

It seems to be akin to what Jesus says to all of us.

"So what?" I wish I could say, with the same abandon and recklessness.  "I don't care who you are, what you've done or are doing, where you've been or you're heading.  We share the common bond of humanity; I know your weakness, for it is in me, also.  Do we share the burning desire to be freed from our weaknesses?  Then let us be brothers . . . and let me share with you the hope and freedom I have been given . . ."

Unfortunately, my own weakness, so often, trips me up and builds walls of distrust and dislike.

I wish this warm, invitational, dangerous love was as simple as the poem makes it sound.

miles to go before I sleep

"Speech is conveniently located midway between thought and action, where it often substitutes for both."
  ~John Andrew Holmes

This is especially poignant to me at the close of the semester.  While I'm at school, I learn new things, exciting things, and I think, "Wow, I want to take some time, really ponder this, and implement it into my life! . . . but right now I'm too busy, so I'll do it later-- during the summer, maybe."  And now here is summer, demanding that I review my list of things to ponder, demanding that I act on what I've said.

The question is if I will.

For the past semester, I've been doing a "lifestyle project" assigned by my environmental science professor. It seemed straightforward and simple at first. But it has changed my thinking and my habits in many, many ways.

I have trouble remembering what meat tastes like.
My first thought with everything now is, "Can I recycle this?"
I have come to enjoy the dimness of my apartment at night, with only one light on.
My feet are calloused and nearly always dirty from walking barefoot or in flip-flops and my shoulders are browning for the summer.
I cannot bear a day without being outside, whether in the sunshine or the rain or the wind.

I want to be a radical.  Even though I've changed my life a lot in some ways, I am still dissatisfied with these changes.  There are things I can and should still change.  I want to live in a house with solar panels and geothermal temperature control, where my children run in and out so much that the outdoors is basically an extension of the house, where the first steps out the back door lead into a garden where we grow our food, where the clucking of free-range chickens wafts indoors when the windows are open, where the pine trees whisper against our eaves, where there's open water nearby, where I can go outside and breathe and love the air.  I've never done something like that; I've never been able to and the desire has never been strong enough to make me want to overcome the obstacles.  And maybe I never will; maybe that radical lifestyle is not the way God wants me to live.  Whatever I do, wherever I live, whoever I live next to, though, I want to be a good neighbor.  I want to love those around me with everything I have, and I believe one of the ways I can love them is by living the simplest, cleanest life possible.

I'm not an environmentalist nutcase, but I do believe in caring for the gifts God gave us. I think, after all God has done for me, taking care of His creation is one of the least things I could do in gratefulness . . .

The Whole World in His Hands

You shall love the LORD your God.

You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

There is no other commandment greater than these.

(Mark 12:30-31)

            Radical—it is a fiery word of intriguing background. The first and second definitions listed on Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary are "of, relating to, or proceeding from a root; of or relating to an origin: fundamental." The third—and more popularly recognized—definition is, "marked by a considerable departure from the usual or traditional: extreme." Somehow, these definitions seem unrelated to each other. How can a word be defined as meaning both "fundamental" and "extreme"? Perhaps this seeming oxymoron makes perfect sense in the arena of Christian environmental stewardship. Though I am not here to argue etymology or word origins, or to misapply definitions, I do intend to show that the idea of Christian environmental stewardship is radical in both ways; it is fundamental and extreme. Though this seems confusing on the surface, I hope it will be come clearer as I continue.

            In order to understand how Christian environmental stewardship can be fundamental, I must first be able to outline the fundamental beliefs of Christianity. These beliefs are that God created man perfect, in His own image; that man sinned and became corrupt, and that he now lives a disjointed version of the life God intended for him; that God wanted to bring man back into relationship with Him; that in order to accomplish this, God sent His Son Jesus to die in the place of man; that Jesus rose again after being dead for three days; that man may be saved by faith in Jesus' death and resurrection; and that those who claim to have faith in God must live in a worthy manner. What is a worthy manner of life for a Christian? According to Jesus, the commandments that contain all the rest are these—to "love the LORD your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength" and to "love your neighbor as yourself" (Mark 12:30a, 31a; NASB).

            "Love the LORD your God," I am told, but often I am unsure how exactly to obey this command. According to the Bible, however, love for God is not difficult to understand. In fact, love for God is bound up with obedience to His commands. Loving God and obeying Him are mentioned together at least eight times explicitly in the book of Deuteronomy (cf. Deut. 11:1). This was not just an instruction for the nation of Israel, however. It is repeated for Christians—for me. "For this is the love of God," John writes to the young church. "that we keep His commandments [. . .]" (I John 5:3, NASB; italics added). None of this may seem to connect to environmental stewardship at first glance. However, the very first responsibility given to mankind was none other than envinronmental stewardship. In the beginning, after the creation of mankind, God instructed them to "rule over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the sky and over every living thing that moves on the earth" (Genesis 1:28, NASB). He then placed them "into the garden of Eden to cultivate it and keep it" (Genesis 2:15, NASB). Ruling over the creation of God is the first responsibility given to mankind, and by obeying this command of God and ruling wisely and kindly, man is able to show his love for God. My dilemma, however, is what constitutes wise rule and, therefore, obedience to and love for God. This is also addressed in the Bible.

            "If someone says, 'I love God,' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from Him, that the one who loves God should love his brother also" (I John 4:20-21). In order to love God as I should, I see that I must love my neighbor as myself (cf. Mark 12:31). Love in this case is not simply an emotion; it is an action. Paul summarizes this in Romans 13:10—"Love does no wrong to a neighbor" (NASB). These principles of love for my neighbor can be applied to my understanding of Christian environmental stewardship. Any decision that does wrong to a neighbor is unloving to mankind, and displays disobedience to God. Decisions that show love to a neighbor are obedience to God.

            This is where issues and real-life gray areas creep into the discussion. Being born and raised in America, I have the privilege of living in one of the wealthiest countries on the planet. However, it is also one of the most wasteful countries on the Earth. Every day we pump greenhouse gases into the atmosphere as we drive our cars to and from work, on errands, and for pleasure. Every day we bury tons of solid waste, taking up land that could be used for farms or homes. Every day we throw away more food than many people in the world will see in a week. Every day we use up more water showering than some families in the world will be able to access for bathing, cleaning, cooking and drinking combined. Every day we live in extravagance that much of the world only dreams about. The resources of the world are inequitably allotted, that is certain, but I wonder how this knowledge should affect me. I cannot help where I was born; I did not choose it or have a say in the matter. It is not my fault that other continents or countries do not have the resources to live as well as I can. Often my attitude is one of apathy. I did not create it; I cannot change it on a worldwide level. I have been given these privileges and it is right that I should take full advantage of them. When I begin to think like this, I fight to remind myself of another very important verse—"For you were called to freedom, brethren; only do not turn your freedom into an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another" (Galatians 5:13, NASB). I was given this privilege and opportunity, and through faith in Jesus I am given freedom to enjoy these things. However, by choosing to follow and obey Jesus, I take on the responsibility to love my neighbor as I love myself. I am not allowed to ignore the hurt and desperation of others; I am not allowed to live a fat, lazy, apathetic life. I am called to love—but how do I live this out?

            I believe correct Christian environmental stewardship demands sacrifice. By looking at the concept of the commons I can see that my everyday decisions do affect worldwide health. My decision to drive instead of walk five minutes down the road adds unnecessary pollution into the atmosphere, causing it to be dirty not only for me but for all others sharing the planet with me. My choice to take a much-longer-than-necessary shower depletes just a little bit more clean water from the general world supply. I have the freedom to do these things, of course, but by doing them, I wonder whether I am using my God-given freedom as I should be using it—to love my neighbor. If I am honest, the answer is no. Using an exorbitant amount of resources does not show love to my neighbor nor obedience nor love to God. This is the fundamental basis of Christian environmental stewardship.

            Am I advocating that Christians sell their cars, give up electricity and running water and heat, and live in caves and under trees? Not necessarily. However, I believe that Christians can and should live their lives in such a way as to love their neighbors, and in so doing, to obey and love God Himself. This is where Christian environmental stewardship becomes extreme.

            Love demands sacrifice. This is perfectly exemplified by Jesus' death on the cross. Love for my neighbor in the context of Christian environmental stewardship demands I make sacrifices as well—though none could ever reach the level of Jesus' sacrifice for me.

            What if I were to choose to live without electricity or running water in my house? What if I were to choose instead to haul my water and plan my life around the sun's rising and setting, as much of the world does?

            What if I were to give up the American dream of a six-bedroom, three-bathroom house on rolling acres of land? What if I were to find a house just large enough for my family, and property only spacious enough for a garden and a small lawn, still more than many people can have?

            What if I were to sacrifice the easy life of fast food and prepared foods and frequent trips to the grocery store? What if I were to work to sustain my family by growing a garden and raising our own animals, as do most women in the world?

            What if I were to live as cleanly as possible, so as to reduce my effect on global pollution?

            What if I were to take the money I might spend on things like property taxes and electricity and water bills and fuel and processed foods and were to send it to the needy in other countries, through mission agencies like World Vision which aids the poor both physically and spiritually?

            What if I were to actually do all this?

            Maybe I will actually do it. Even though, through this class, I have changed my ideas of Christian environmental stewardship, I am still dissatisfied with the way I live.

            I want to be a radical.

            I want to love my neighbors—local, national, and global—by living as simply, cleanly and cheaply as possible. I want to raise my children to know that having a little can be difficult, but it is not a disaster. I want to go to bed at night, tired from a long day of working, but satisfied that with the little actions I took, I was able to fulfill the great commandments. I think I have to do this, or someday die full of regrets.

            Christian environmental stewardship is radical. It fulfills the fundamental commands of Jesus—love the LORD, and love your neighbor. It demands extreme sacrifice and labor and personal change. Perhaps not all Christians feel called to live the way I described. However, I think all Christians would agree that we have the responsibility to obey the great commandments. This is one of the ways I see to do this. Yes, it is radical. Jesus was radical, too. Those who follow Him cannot expect to be called to anything easier or quieter. As a wise professor remarked, "It is not as if you live your Christian life in your heart."

by His wounds

We were discussing the sea yesterday in class.  The sea is an odd thing in the Bible.  It is not inherently evil, but because of the corruption of Creation, it is defiant toward God's authority.  It is one of the most powerful and unpredictable forces in Creation, and because of this, the sea was always a place of mystique and fear for the ancient peoples, as it often is for us today.

And then something new happened.

A Man came, and He had the power with one word to calm a raging sea.  When He did this, His followers asked, "Who is this?"

Just look at the Bible.  Who is the One Who has power over the defiant sea?  Who is the One at Whose words it flees?  Who caused even the unwilling sea and its creatures to give up His servant Jonah?  It's the same One Who came as a man, calming angry seas, healing broken bodies, redeeming chained souls-- Jesus.  He knew the power He had; He Himself compared His death and resurrection to Jonah's time in the great fish.

"Listen to the Old Testament," my professor told us.  "The sea never takes God down.  Wait three days and you'll see that the sea, the grave, death, sin, never takes God down.  The resurrection of Christ is the greatest demonstration of God's creation plan."

We are powerless against the sea, against death, sin, the grave, but Jesus is not powerless.  His conquering, glorious resurrection proves His power.

And He reaches out in His power and mercy and love to free us.


He
is
risen.

know your name

I hate how people throw around the word "intimacy."  It's like throwing around the topic of sex, or the name of God-- like playing frisbee with fine china.

How on earth is one supposed to be known by another human if one has no idea who one is?
Even supposing that is possible and happens . . . how is one supposed to know that one is known?

Beyond

My professor for my Isaiah class is Dr. T.  In the time I've had him (one class my first semester, and now half of this semester) I've somehow come to expect, well, to be surprised by him.  He seems staid and proper, but at the most unexpected times, right in the middle of class, he will suddenly have these random bursts of humor or sarcasm or excitement or drama.  It used to startle me, hearing these things from such a scholarly man, but I've become accustomed to it.  Somehow, it's these random bursts that are the most memorable and help me connect the most to the topic at hand.
    Anyway, today in class, Dr. T. was talking about the time frame of the second half of Isaiah. "At this point," he said,  drawing a chalk line over chapters forty-eight through sixty-six.  "We're left knowing that there must be something after Babylon to resolve the problem of Israel's rebellion. To Babylon and beyond, right?" he exclaimed, turning toward us excitedly, a half-smile on his face.  It was one of those startling moments when he broke out of his accustomed speech and yanked us into his head.  But something in his tone was more than humor, and it caught my attention.
    Yes-- Babylon and beyond.

    Beyond, beyond, we are always looking beyond.  We feel, we think, we hope that there must be something else, something more.  And we are right.  Qohelet' said that God has set eternity in our hearts, and I believe that we have never been able to quench this burning within us.  So we continue to squint forward into the blinding sun and the whipping wind, dreaming of and waiting for the day when that something from beyond will come.  We know it is there.  We taste it on our tongues, sometimes, catch its scent on the wind, glimpse its shadows on the inside of our eyelids, hear its echoes and whisperings in our stories.

    Ah, story.  It touches us all in the deep crevices of our souls.  After all, what better way to speak of the Something that is still Beyond than the way He chose to speak of Himself . . .

Smell the color 9

I love Chris Rice.  He always, somehow, puts into lyrics exactly what I've been feeling and thinking and crying in my heart.

I would take no for an answer
Just to know I heard You speak
And I'm wondering why I've never
Seen the signs they claim to see
Lot of special revelations
Meant for everybody but me
Maybe I don't truly know You
Or maybe I just simply believe
~Smell the Color 9

For years, every time I have a rather vital decision to make, I've told God, "I don't care what You say.  Just say something; just let me know You're answering."  Usually He doesn't; usually I end up having to use my judgment and common sense and the circumstances and my biblical knowledge and others' godly counsel to decide.  I don't hear a voice.  I have to guess.

I hate that.  But it seems to be the way God "speaks" to me.

And maybe it's all wrong, maybe I should wait until I definitely-absolutely-clearly hear Him speak. Maybe He has been speaking and I just haven't been listening.  That has been true sometimes; I shrink from listening because I'm so afraid to wait and hear nothing.  It's easier to go on as I know how to-- asking for a voice, but never "hearing the calling" and never expecting to.

Even if I'm wrong, it's good to know that someone else shares the burden of my aching heart.

all I really want to do

When I was very young-- two years and ten months, to be exact-- I made my first and only emergency room visit.  We were having a party for Kelsey's first birthday, and my best friend and his family were coming over.  I was naturally excited.  While we were waiting for them to come (I think Mom was either napping or just doing some things upstairs), I was playing in the living room.  I picked up an empty Easter candy tin (one that I had received at Grandma Rice's) and held it in my hands and spun around and around and around.  I was dizzy and giddy and all I could see was the tin in my hands.

The next thing I remember, I was in the kitchen, staring at the ceiling, with Daddy standing over me pressing a bunch of paper towels against my cheekbone.  The next scene I remember is the bright light they shone on my face, the feeling of being bound like a mummy (so I wouldn't fight or get my hands in the way), the doctors and nurses staring down at me, the hand descending toward my face.

The hand must have had a needle.  But I don't remember it.

It's funny how trauma and drama obliterate themselves like that.  I remember perfectly what happened before I fell; I remember perfectly what happened directly after I fell.

I don't remember the fall.
I don't remember the pain or the blood.
I don't remember the car trip or the ER waiting room.

It's like the scariest parts of the story are gone, and I'm left with a vivid mini-film I can replay whenever I want, review from the safety eighteen years provides, and file away whenever it gets too intense or uncomfortable.

I wonder if that phenomena-- of pain and fright blotting themselves out-- continues past the age of three.  I hope so.

With a Blow

    I lay on my bed, my eyes closed, fighting to breathe, listening to the whispers around me.
    "The healer says she will last only until the sun sets."
    "Her husband should be with her right now."
    "That man!  It is his fault this is happening!"
    I knew they did not believe I could hear them, but their words still burnt.  Tears welled in my eyes and slid down my cheeks as I remembered the months that had led up to this day.

. . .

    When I entered the room, my husband was staring at the wall, his lips set in a thin line.  The older priest had a grave expression on his face.
    "Your husband claims to have seen a vision from the LORD," he informed me.  "However, he has been robbed of . . . normal speech."  He stared at me.  "Be wary, my daughter," he said, his voice stern.  "Many experiences . . . will not be from the LORD."  I bowed my head as he rose and left our house.  Then I sank down next to my husband.
    "My lord?" I ventured.  "What . . . what happened?"  His eyes sad, he just stared at me, and I remembered what the other priest had said.  "You cannot speak at all?" I whispered.  He shook his head, and my heart leapt.  "Speak to me, then, please!" I cried.  "I would hear the story from your own lips!"  Slowly, he shook his head again, and my heart sank.  I took his hands in mine, laying my head against his chest.  He wrapped his arms about me and I felt him sigh.

. . .

    I only stepped out of the house for a moment, but it was long enough.
    "My lord!" I shouted, beating my fists against the door.  "My lord, please open the door!"  From inside the house, I could hear strange mutters, which made me more frantic.  "Please, my lord!" I shrieked.
    Seven days my husband had spent seated in the marketplace.  Then, without warning, he had disappeared.  Five days later, he had appeared in our courtyard, dusty and looking hungry.  When I went to the garden for vegetables, he had slammed and bolted the door behind me.
    Something was wrong with the man I loved.
    Leaning my head against the door, I closed my eyes.
    "Oh, LORD," I prayed.  "Protect Your servant from the insanity that would take him.  Give Your maidservant wisdom!"
    Then I waited.

. . .

    The men had bound him, but I had soon untied him, unable to bear the grief in his eyes, and he had been free for weeks.  I even dared leave him alone when I went to the marketplace.  One day, when I returned home, he was sitting in the dust in our courtyard.  He had a jumble of things placed in front of him, and a group of small boys was gathered around him.  As I watched, the  children scattered across the yard, shouting war cries and laughing.  I stepped into the courtyard and my husband met my eyes, his gaze solemn.  As I watched, he twisted a few twigs together, then wrapped a scrap of cloth around them, forming a tiny model of a tent.  Crouching, I saw that there were many tents, forming miniature camps, all grouped about a brick.  Against the brick were piles of dirt, larger twigs, and stones lying as if they had been tossed against the brick.  I stared at my husband.
    "My lord?"  He did not answer me, but rose and went into the house.  I stared at the things in front of me.  My husband returned carrying an iron plate which he set upright near the brick.  Looking satisfied, he lay down on his left side and closed his eyes.  I was sure he had fallen asleep, but when I moved, he opened his eyes.  I shook my head and walked into the house.
    "Come back inside when you're hungry," I called over my shoulder.
    The silence I could endure.  But war games?  Child's play?  His sanity was more fragile than I had believed.

. . .

    It had been a fairly quiet day until my neighbor woman burst through the door.
    "Do you know where your husband is?" she cried, her face pale.
    "He's in the courtyard-" I glanced out the window, then froze.  My husband was gone.  I whirled to the woman, grabbing her shoulders.  "Where is he?" I demanded.
    "The- the marketplace . . ."
    I dashed out the door, my heart pounding, and raced to the marketplace.  A crowd was gathered, and I fought my way through it, crying my husband's name.  Suddenly, I halted.  There stood my husband, gripping a sword.  His eyes calm, he turned to look at me.  Someone cried, "Stay back, sister!"  Instead, I stretched my hands out and stepped forward.
    "My lord, put the sword down, please."  I could see his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip.  I took another step toward him.  He backed away, bringing the sword close to his throat, and my breath came faster.  "Please, my lord, just put it down . . ."  Even as I spoke, he slashed close to his neck.  I screamed, falling to my knees and squeezing my eyes shut.  For a long moment, the marketplace was silent except for my sobs and my husband's ragged breathing.  Opening my eyes, I dared to glance at him.  He stood, clutching the sword in one hand and his severed beard in the other.  I scrambled to my feet.  As I watched, he carefully laid the hair in a bowl, then set about shaving the rest of his hair.  When he was done, he laid the sword aside and sat on the ground, holding the bowl of hair in his lap.  Tears filled my eyes at the sight of him, so bare in public.  I crouched next to him, stroking his bald head.
    "I don't understand," I whispered, burying my face on his shoulder.  "I- I just don't understand . . ."
    For a long moment, he let me rest there.  Then he rose and went to a stall, finding a pair of scales, and weighed out his hair.  I stayed in the dust, silent and grief-stricken.

. . .

    My husband had finally spoken after his months of silence, in a terrible Voice not his own, and the news he bore was not good.
    We had forsaken the LORD, and the LORD would now forsake our people and His chosen city to heartache, famine, siege, pestilence, capture, and death.
    My husband was a madman; he had proven so over the past months.
    The city of Jerusalem- God's chosen dwelling place- would not fall so terribly.
    His words could not be true.

. . .

    The elders had come again to seek counsel.  I remained in the kitchen, trying to busy myself and ignore their voices.  Suddenly, the murmurs burst into excited chatter, and I dashed to the door to see what was happening.  My husband stood stiff, his eyes latched on the ceiling, his arms and legs locked.  I stifled a shriek, for I knew the expression on his face.  I squeezed my eyes shut as the minutes dragged by until I heard my husband take a deep breath.  I opened my eyes.  There was fire in his gaze as he opened his mouth, and I dropped to the floor, covering my ears.
    The Voice was speaking again.  Using my husband's mouth, it boomed out accusation on accusation and horror of horrors.  I could not move, could not even breathe while it spoke.  Suddenly, I heard my husband's voice cry out, and I jerked up from the floor.  There were tears on his face and he was shaking his head, as if he himself did not want to believe the words he was saying.  I scrambled to my feet, shaking so hard I could barely breathe.
    "Pelatiah!" a man screamed, leaping to his feet and shaking the man next to him.  As I watched, Pelatiah clutched his breast, then slumped to the floor.  Chaos erupted.
    "It's the madman!"
    "He has brought this upon us!"  My husband did not even glance at the men, but crumpled facedown on the floor, lapsing into his garbled speech.  I wanted to run to him, to pull him off the floor, to protect him from the rage of the elders.
    Instead, I crept to the darkest corner of the kitchen and sank to the floor.  Folding my legs to my chest, I buried my face against my knees.
    "How long, LORD?" I whispered.
    Only silence answered me.

. . .

    All day my husband had carried his possessions into our courtyard.  Word had spread that the madman was performing again, and by evening a crowd had gathered.  My heart was in my throat as, one last time, my husband stepped out of our house.  The crowd stirred as he bundled his things and began walking. We all trailed after him, out of the courtyard, down the street, through the city, until he reached the wall.  There we watched as he began forcing stones out of the wall and digging through the mortar with his bare hands.
    "What are you doing, madman?" a youth called out, his friends laughing.  My husband turned.  I felt my spine tingle as I glimpsed his blazing eyes.
    "Thus says the LORD God," boomed the Voice I dreaded so much.  "'This burden concerns the prince in Jerusalem . . .'" I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the words he spoke.
    O LORD! I prayed.  Why must it be my husband?
    As he finished speaking, I opened my eyes.  Most of the crowd had drifted away.  They had come for a performance, but had received an unwanted sermon.  With a sigh, my husband hefted his burden on his shoulder.  The hole in the wall was just large enough for him to crawl through.  He paused and glanced over his shoulder at me.
    In a moment, he had disappeared.
    I trudged back to the house.  The beauty of the night sky mocked my pain until I stepped into the house, where the ceiling blocked out the stars.  I crawled into bed, missing my husband's presence.
    Later that night, I jerked awake.  Something had changed since I went to sleep.  Turning, I bumped into something warm.  I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.  Then an arm wrapped around me and I recognized my husband.
    He had not abandoned me.
    Closing my eyes, I curled against his chest and drifted back to sleep.

. . .

    Day by day, my husband kept crying out against everything he should have been loyal to. Day by day, public sentiment turned against him.  Day by day, I watched him continue to spiral from a respected priest to a laughingstock.
    I burned to step in, to stop it, to change things.
    But I could not.
    I was only a woman, the wife of the madman.
    And I had come to know that what he said was true.
    My husband was not mad.
    He spoke for the LORD, and akin to righteous men of the past, he was scorned and mocked by the unrighteous.
    I feared the day I would see Jerusalem crumble- the city of the temple, the city of my God.
    Yet I knew, by my husband's words, the time was close.
    Dread in my heart, I watched, and waited, and prayed.

. . .

    My husband had spoken to the people.
    Jerusalem was under siege.
    It was too early for anyone to confirm his message, but I needed nothing else to believe the words of the LORD.  My heart pounding, I stood in the crowded marketplace, listening as my husband described what would happen to our holy city.  Many wept, but my eyes were dry.
    We forsook the LORD, and now He has forsaken us.  The day I dreaded has come.
    My husband caught my eye, and hesitated in his speech.  I glimpsed something I did not understand in his eyes.  Then he looked away and I was sure I had imagined it.  Yet, suddenly, hope stirred in my heart.
    Are you ready, dearest? a gentle voice whispered deep inside my soul.
    My head was beginning to ache.  As my husband finished speaking, the crowd dispersed, muttering.  I fixed my eyes on the ground, feeling unsteady and nauseated.  Then an arm slipped around me, and I leaned against my husband.  For a moment, he held me close against his chest as I wrapped my arms around him.  His chin rested on the top of my head, and I closed my eyes, listening to the soothing thud of his heart.
    My husband helped me home and into bed.  He brought the healer woman, who checked my forehead, my throat, my feet and hands, then went away, shaking her head.  With grief-filled eyes, my husband sat next to me, holding my hand.  I could barely keep my eyes open.
    My husband stayed with me until a group of women drove him away while they bathed me.  Once they laid me back in bed, they huddled about me.
    "The healer says she will last only until the sun sets."
    "Her husband should be with her right now."
    "That man!  It is his fault this is happening!"
    I wept, praying for my husband's return.  In a moment, the gossiping voices faded, and footsteps pattered away.  Forcing my eyes open, I saw my husband standing in the doorway.  I raised my hand toward him, and he came to me, clasping my hand.
    There was much I wished to say- how I was sorry I had thought him mad, how I regretted allowing others to use force against him, how I wished I had been loyal to him no matter what.  I wanted to confess that I had mocked him in my heart, that I had refused to believe his words, that I had turned from the way of the LORD.  I longed to tell him that I now knew that all he had said and done had been from the LORD our God.  My throat closed up, and I found myself unable to speak.  I shut my eyes.  My husband was trembling.
    Not for me, dearest.  Grieve for the city of God.  Mourn for the people of God.
    I opened my eyes, staring straight above me.  Instead of the ceiling, I glimpsed a dark cloud, filled with fire and lightning and smoke and terrible darting figures.  I gasped in fear, and felt my husband touch my face.  I looked at him, and saw desperation and understanding in his eyes.  He nodded at me.
    He saw this, too . . .
    It made sense- the fire in his eyes, the stiffening of his joints, the Voice.
    Yes- the Voice.  It's here.
Like a cloud, the Voice rolled over me, blocking out all else.
    I hear it, dearest.  I understand now.
    Somehow, after all the months of hating and cowering away from the Voice, I was not afraid anymore.  I closed my eyes once more.
    I am ready.  Let me hear what You would say . . .




    And so she was gone.
    By the terror and sheer delight in her face, I knew she had seen the LORD.
    As the LORD had commanded me, I did not mourn and I did not weep and my tears did not come.  I groaned silently; I made no mourning for the dead.  I bound on my turban and put my shoes on my feet, and did not cover my mustache and did not eat the bread of men.2
    In my heart of hearts, though, I wailed and mourned more than any man ever had for the woman he loved.


    May the name of the LORD GOD be praised.