Milestones In My Spiritual Life- Epiphanies

 

I’m reading Anne Lamott this summer. I love her writing style. In this book, Traveling Mercies, she begins with incidents in her life that brought her to God and Christianity. It made me think about my own spiritual journey. Along the way there have been many moments and people who helped pave my spiritual road, but three epiphanies stand out.

I have already said I grew up in a Christian home. My father was a pastor, son of a pastor. My mom was also raised in a Christian home. As a kid I felt my whole life was taken up with church. It wasn’t, but it felt that way. I thought I was a Christian. I knew the lingo and I would use faith language to explain to my friends why I couldn’t do what they were doing, especially as we got older and there were things like dances. It’s cringe worthy to admit that I would say I couldn’t go because it was “against my religion.” Painful to even write it down. The truth was, dancing wasn't against my religion, it was against my parent’s moral standard, but who wants to say that? So I played the religious card.

But though I was “religious”,  I wasn’t a Christian. You don’t truly become a believer by osmosis. You have to take action on your own account. I was living off of my parents’ account. It just didn’t seem that important to me, until it did. My first epiphany began with a movie we watched at church. I don’t even remember the name of the film, one of several made for church offerings that were out. But what struck me from the story was how the “Christian” characters prayed. I grew up around prayer, before meals, before bed, and all through church activities. But the way these people prayed totally blew me away. They just talked to God – plain, simple conversational words.  I had never even imagined you could just “talk” to God like that, like He was a friend. But, it was just a movie.

A few months later I went to camp. I was 13, the summer between junior high and high school. The speaker, whose name I have also forgotten, woke me up the first night by praying in a similar manner as the people in the movie. He just talked, like God was in the room beside him. I don’t remember if that struck anyone else as odd or amazing, but it hit me hard. I thought I knew God. I prayed. But I didn’t know this man’s God. I realized I wanted to know a God you could just talk to. That week I came to the realization that I was not yet a Christian. For the first time I understood that Christianity isn’t a religion, it’s a relationship. I had a lot of religion, but I didn’t have a relationship with God. I knew I needed to make that decision for myself, and I knew that if God was that approachable, I wanted to approach and spend time with Him.

My life changed as I began to see faith in God as relational, not merely following a bunch of rules. My life changed, but not always for the better. The legalistic part of me still existed. But the process had begun. I graduated from high school and went on to college.

At college I found an amazing church. The pastor wanted to give a Bible School experience to the students who attended his church. I found what he offered irresistible. I loved his classes and practically lived there on Sundays and Wednesdays during my undergrad and graduate years. I have copious notes from my time there. I borrowed commentaries from my dad’s office.  I don’t think this helped in my relationship with God as much as it filled my head with a lot of knowledge and ideas that later made more of a difference. The experience fueled the teacher in me, and began a lifelong love of Bible study. This pastor too saw knowing Jesus and God as relational, and the more we knew of Them (via study and experience) the closer we could come in relationship, if we pursued it.

I pursued the knowledge but not so much the relationship. College was full of other types of relationships. One relationship that became very important to me was with a young man. I adored him. He made me feel beautiful for the first time in my life. There was the minor issue of his being more or less atheist, but who cares, right? I remember exactly the night when I felt God pushing me for an answer – my relationship with Him or my relationship with this person who doesn’t even recognize God exists? I chose the man. 

But ours was a strange relationship that went on for many years. I think now that what he liked in me he also disliked – my relationship with God. I kept going to the Bible classes, but the rest of my life was full of school and him. Then came time for my student teaching. I would be away from campus for an entire semester. During that time my guy found a girlfriend more to his comfort zone. And I went a little crazy. By day I worked at school and by night my roommate and I enjoyed the party scene in town. I had never met and spent time with men in bars, and here I was. It was flattering and fun, and certainly not what God would have wanted for me.

My second epiphany came during one of those evenings. I’d met a guy, he bought my drinks. We talked and danced, and finally he asked for my phone number so we could go out sometime. I wrote it on a match book (or a napkin – I can’t remember, but it felt like something from the movies). A few days later he called me. It was exciting, except his first question was, “are you a Christian?”  What??? We hadn’t talked about faith or even religion. I kept up drinking with the best of them. There was no way – yet, out of the blue he asked that question. I said, “yes.” “I thought so,” he said, “I don’t think we need to see each other again.” And the conversation was over.

How did he know? In that moment I came to understand that once I’d placed my life into relationship with Jesus, I was “stuck” with Him.  I may have thought I left Him at home, or back on campus, but in truth He went with me wherever I went, including the bar. And somehow he shone through me so that young man could see. It was far from my intent, and yet there it was. I realized I could think I was running from God, but in fact, He faithfully stuck with me, as indeed happens in the best of relationships.

Gradually I began the trip back to being more faithful to my relationship with God. I finished school and began teaching. A pastor who’d gone to school with my dad, and whose wife had been in graduate school with me, had a church where I worked. He put me to work with his youth group and mentored me. From there I took a job as a youth pastor, found my husband and felt like my relationship with God was blossoming. That church experience was trial by fire for me, especially feeling like I was in the dream Christian job only to find that working with Christians can be anything but a dream. But I loved working with the kids, and teaching the Bible.

I left that job to become a high school English teacher. A couple years into that job my mother found out she had an incurable liver disease. Her final year was quite tough, as anyone who’s known someone in final stage liver failure knows. It’s awful. But I always felt God was there, walking through it with us. I was experiencing the truth my college pastor had taught – what we know about God we take into our experiences. The more we know, the more we can trust Him in the circumstances.

My third epiphany occurred when my mom was dying. My mother loved Jesus. She had her issues, but overall she was one of the godliest people I’ve ever known. Being a pastor’s kid drives a lot of children away from God. My mother’s confident belief and faithful prayers created the glue in our family, seeing us all develop relationships with God.  I just knew that my mom would be one of those people Jesus would gently take by the hand and lead into heaven. She’d look up and see Him at the foot of her bed, smile and peacefully go.  Her death wasn’t anything like that. It was, for me, horrific. Since then I’ve learned that a lot of what she went through was the normal process of dying. But we didn’t have the benefit of a hospice explanation. Instead I witnessed her gasping for breath, her eyes wild as she thrashed her head looking for something that wasn’t there. Suddenly, inside my head, I wondered for the first time if there really was a God. Because of my upbringing, I’d always assumed He existed. I also assumed He’d take my saintly mom into his arms and carry her to heaven. Well, we all know what assumptions do. So I stood there wondering if I’d bought off on a pipe dream. Maybe we’d all been wrong, because it certainly seemed there was no God in this room.

It was terrifying. Suddenly, it all changed. Not my mother calming. Not Jesus at the foot of her bed. But there, inside me, came the overwhelming sense of God’s presence. He was there, with us, with mom, with my family, and with me. It was as real as if He’d spoken. “I am here.”  And there was peace. This experience cemented my beliefs. I’ve never doubted God’s existence again.

Three epiphanies. Three experiences that shaped my faith. Christianity is not a religion full of rules and regulations. Christianity is a relationship with God through Jesus Christ. My behavior and beliefs are shaped by this relationship, not by a list of does and don’ts.  The relationship is based on God, not on my behavior. I can be a miserable failure as a believer, but God is faithful. Once we have accepted God’s gift of relationship, nothing can separate us from Him, especially our own failures. And occasionally He has to remind us He is still there, most often in very surprising ways. Finally, in the midst of the worst life can throw at us, He is there. He may not be stopping the situation, taking away the pain, but He faithfully steps into the pain with us, and holds us steady.

Epiphany can, according to the Cambridge Dictionary, mean a sudden understanding of something important, or a powerful religious experience. I have no doubt that my three experiences were manifested by God to teach me something important. Probably I understand them better more by hindsight, but in the moment they were pretty clear messages as well: God wants a relationship with us, He will never leave us, and will give us the strength and ability to endure even the most difficult circumstances.

 

Noisy Quiet

 

I tell people I love being at the coast for the quiet, the peacefulness. Really it’s not quiet at all. You can sit outside on a bench and hear the loud roar of the ocean as the tide comes in or out. There is always a loud choir of bird songs, coupled with the variety of crow communications. Chain saws are familiar sounds, and so are lawn mowers. Sound is weird here. Something can sound like it’s happening next door, and it’s really several blocks away.  We planned our life here to be secluded. Our road was once just wooded spaces and a few cleared lots for camping. Now there are as many houses as empty lots. We own two lots, just to keep up the façade that we live in the forest. I look out my windows and see trees and shrubs and can pretend I am lost in the woods, in the peaceful, quiet noise of the coast. We even have traffic sounds, and sometimes sirens. But with all this “noise”, it’s still quieter and calmer and slower than home in the city suburbs. And that’s what I love.

When we first started coming here, both my parents were still alive. They camped here with friends, the lot full of trailers. We camped at the state park and came to visit. The place was full of people enjoying one another’s company. After my mom passed away, we began to join dad camping on the lot with him. In addition to his friends, and our family, our own friends began to join us. We had fun creating meals together outside, playing dominoes on shaky tables, talking around the smoky campfire, filling the space with our noise. We even watched movies outside. We have celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, and the passing of those we love. We just had a celebration of my sister, marking the year of her death.

When we built our house, after dad passed away, I created an outdoor space where we could entertain friends and family around al fresco meals (often with blankets and heaters because it’s unusual to have a warm evening here, even in summer). I loved the sound of family and friends eating and talking and laughing around my table. It’s still one of my favorite things, even though gatherings are fewer now. We were spoiled with gathering every weekend for so many years. I love sharing this space with friends and filling it with raucous games and good food.

When my sister was alive, we spent the summer together here. We would take turns cooking dinners every other night. Our husbands would join us for weekends and then for their vacations. But, for years, my sister and I enjoyed our space together. We had our routines, including latte runs, going into town for groceries and lunches out, binging on favorite movie series. Sometimes it was hard to make the weekend adjustment of adding our husbands to the routine. We made the transitions from trailers to homes.  Whenever friends would join us for a few days, my sister and husband were automatically part of the group. Whether eating meals or playing cards – the action was around a table full of noise. To make it complete, my brother and sister-in-law moved down here permanently for a while. The table was full.

I cannot begin to express how much I love the sound of friends and family talking and laughing around my tables. Nothing compares to that sound, because that’s what love sounds like to me. My birth family and my chosen family making joyous noise together.  My scrapbook of our first summer in this house shows friends and family around the table, obviously my place of love.

Now it is indeed quieter. For the first time it was just the two of us on the Fourth of July. It was certainly not quiet with all the “bombs bursting in air”, but it was quiet compared to other Fourths filled with people. Last summer my brother’s kids and grandkids were with us, lots of noise. Things are changing. The noise has abated somewhat. And that’s a bit of a loss for me to adjust to. I look at my big table and realize how much of my love language involves that space being full of people.

Maybe it hearkens back to being in a family of 6, and meals were noisy sessions. Certainly for me a full table denotes love (as do carbohydrates of any sort on said table). It’s been difficult to watch the numbers diminish by death and time. The quiet is hard to take.

We have a friend who, for many summers, came and camped on our space with us. She hated it, often for good reason. Many times the weather was anything but glorious. We have pictures of us wrapped in layers, sitting around the fire with the smoke hanging solid in the air around us. Yet, we also had a lot of fun. She came back because she was my friend, not because she loved camping. In fact she once told me she understood why we liked camping here – because there are times when we just enjoy being miserable. She’s liked it better now we built a house.

But being miserable, though it happens a lot when camping, isn’t why we love it here. We love it here for the noisy quiet of a shared space. Just like my parents, this home has given us a place to gather our family and friends and celebrate being together, weather notwithstanding. And though there isn’t the regular gatherings with my family, we are still honored to have time with friends and chosen family. That’s what makes this place special.

And God is in this place. Obviously I believe He is in all the places, but for us, this place is special. His grace provided it to us, especially the second lot. He has blessed us with the richness of friends and family to share it with. The beauty of the place – the trees and wild life, the ocean – fill us with peace and still our anxieties. He gave us this space to heal our souls and expand our hearts.

I do come to the beach for its noisy quiet. I come to spend time with family and friends, and I come to learn to live in my own quiet.  Whatever the situation, God has provided us with what we need, and also things wildly beyond what we could ask for or imagine. That makes this a place of blessing for everyone who comes to get away from the city and enjoy a bit of our version of quiet.

The Growth of Violence as "Sanctified" Form of Resistence

 

I don’t know about you, but the news sometimes really gets to me. I used to watch the morning news programs before getting ready for work, but discovered that is not a way for me to begin my day, let alone ease my anxiety. Now I mostly read short pieces from a couple of news sources, and try to get both sides, so I’m not just hearing what I want to hear. Listening to the other “side” hasn’t changed my opinions, but hopefully helps me to better understand, or at least know, what others think.

This week I read an article about the rise in violence from the left side of the political spectrum. This is the side most likely to call for gun control, diversity training for law enforcement and helping hands for the needy. This same side appears to have begun embracing violence as an answer to their anger. Somehow assassination is an act of political rightness?? The right claims the media only talks about violence from the right and ignores any violence from the other side. This article talked about the uptick in violence as a whole, and the growth of violence from the left.

Obviously most people, red or blue, abhor violence. Most of us would never think of killing a person because we think our country would be better if they were dead – well maybe we might think the country would be better if they were not here, but we wouldn’t wish them dead, or celebrate their death. However, there are extremist on both sides, and the far left is catching up with the far right in regards to the use of violence to make their point.

We see it in protests all the time. Most of the people protesting are just carrying signs and making their views on a particular issue known. Recently we had the No King’s Protest.  I had some friends who marched that day. That day I was at a graduation where several young people stood in protest against Israel and for Palestinian liberation. No violence ensued. But there are always those in a crowd who might not even be there for the cause, but to cause trouble. They prefer to break windows and set cars on fire. Those people always get the limelight and make it difficult for the nonviolent protesters to get their message heard. In Los Angeles recently the President felt he had to send in the National Guard and the Marines to handle the few who were getting off on setting fires and vandalizing businesses. That appeared to escalate the violence rather than subdue it.

This article had some interesting findings from an organization called Network Contagion Research Institute (NCRI) out of Rutgers University. NCRI recently did research into the rise of violence on the left. They said 1/3 of their respondents expressed some level of justification for acts of lethal political violence. 56% said the murder of President Trump would be somewhat justified (specifically in reference to the attempt on his life last year). Only 31% of Democrats felt Trump deserved sympathy over the attempt, while 60% said he did not. “We are witnessing the alarming rise of what the NCRI calls an ‘assassination culture’…it’s being sanctified as resistance by parts of the political left.”

Murder labeled appropriate action in resistance. It’s ok because we are on the correct side of the aisle on this issue?  Since when?  What happened to passive, peaceful resistance? Why are people lauding the man who gunned down the chairman of United Health Care as a hero?  Why is it ok to vandalize someone’s Tesla? Or a synagogue? Or shoot a young Jewish couple coming out of a building?

The spokesman from the NCRI said, “It’s not just about who pulls the trigger, but who remains silent.” That was convicting to me. Do people assume I stand with them just because I am silent? I don’t think anyone should be assassinated, ever, even those whose politics I disagree with. Isn’t that what America used to be about, I can disagree with you and we don’t have to kill each other?  And I don’t hate Tesla owners, let alone go out and mar their cars, just because I don’t care for Elon Musk. And I certainly don’t hate either Jews or Palestinians just because I disagree with how both sides are handling their disputes here in America or in Israel.  The Jews heading into their synagogues in America don’t deserve having their building defaced or their visit threatened by violence from people supporting Palestine. Nor should Palestinians fear being attacked by an Israeli while going about their business. This is America. We live side by side. What are we thinking?

Maybe that’s the point, we are not thinking; we are just reacting. I want to be more proactive, and more thoughtful in my approach. I want to show how we can agree to disagree without endangering relationships, or buildings or cars. I want to respond remembering we are all God’s creation, created in His image, deserving of honor and respect, even with those who think differently. I want to support nonviolence on both sides of our political spectrum. I will continue to pray for our country, our leaders and for all of us that we could see that violence is not the answer to our problems. 

 

 

 

Mesa, Jesus. “The Growing Threat of Political Violence from the Left”. Newsweek. newsweek.com. 1 World Trade Center, Floor 72 New York, New York 10007. 7/11/25.

America's Birthday

 

Our country just turned 249 years old. Quite young by other’s standards, but pretty amazing for us that this experimental upstart has lasted this long. We have always been characterized by our roots – rebellious, independent, free speaking, hard working, rugged individuals. We have also been a mix of ethnicities, religious beliefs and passions. 

Today we are living in a time of change. A time that challenges the beliefs of many of us. My students had come to believe patriotism was a negative word. But it doesn’t mean loving and supporting our country at any cost. Patriotism doesn’t mean we agree with everything our government is doing. It doesn’t naively believe that everything we hold true is perfect or righteous.  A patriot believes there is something worth holding on to and fighting for, the values and hopes that began our nation all those years ago.

The problem is confusing patriotism with nationalism, something that is happening all around us. Nationalism says our country is superior, best, deserving whatever we wish to take or do. Patriots know their country isn’t perfect, but it’s theirs and they want to preserve it, seek its welfare and make it better. Nationalist tend to see their country as exclusive, especially with regards to color, religion and creed, one way or the highway.  Patriots love their country in spite the imperfections; nationalist, if they see imperfections, believe they are caused by others.

Nationalism has been on the rise in our country in recent years. Alongside of nationalism comes the desire to purge the problems. The country is perfect, if we could just get rid of…. Today one of those imperfections we are seeking to remove are people who have been living and working here without proper paperwork.  Or people who have a different view of gender or relationships. Or anyone who doesn’t fit the nationalist’s view of America – probably white, cis-gendered and mostly male.

Several years ago we were in London on the 4^th of July. We were in Westminster Abbey, and it happened to be one of the designated hours for prayer.  The Dean came out and announced they were going to have this prayer time, and asked all of us visiting just to be quiet and respectful. While we sat there the Dean began to pray for The United States. It was one of the most moving experiences of my life. He pointed out it was our nation’s birthday, and he prayed for the strength, safety and health of our country and its leaders. Imagine, sitting in the country we fought against to win our nation’s freedom, and this religious leader is praying for our continued success.  It was beautiful. I wonder what he is praying for us today?

We seem to have lost our way. As a country we’ve always been a bit undecided regarding newcomers. The Statue of Liberty says “give me your tired, your poor”, but when they come we turn them away. I have always been fascinated at the lengths to which people will go to get to the United States. They ride on top of trains, sail on tiny rafts, cross dangerous open areas just to get in. Most of them are seeking a better a life, the same American Dream that brought our relatives here. The dream itself may or may not pan out, often doesn’t, but still people try to come. Despite our lack of acceptance, they believe there is something better here.

For many, there is. We are not a war torn country, though we are quite violent. Our poorest people seem rich compared to the world’s poor, though they are still unable to meet basic needs. We have so much room, though we selfishly hoard the spaces we have. We forget how we came here 300+ years ago and took the land from those who lived here, pushing them across the vastness only to take the land again and again because it was never enough. We’d like to imagine we came here to nothing. But we overran a civilization that had long made this their home. And we keep on overrunning the people we’ve decided are in our way. We watched while our President signed away many of our poorest citizens’ medical and life essential needs with a huge cut in Medicaid.

I definitely don’t like the direction our country is headed, the changes that come with the signing of a paper. Issues I hold dear, like environmental protections, are disappearing. Yet, still, I love my country. I want my country to grow and prosper, not at the expense of or on the backs of anyone, but as an enterprise we can all grab hold of and support. I’m praying and seeking out what I might do to promote my country’s wellbeing. Where can I make a difference? Where can I be a voice against the wrongs I see and for the good? I’m praying for my country that it can once again be seen, not as perfect – it never was- but as a beacon of possibilities.

Happy Birthday, America.

Remembering My Sister

 

Yesterday marked a year since my sister's death. We had a small family gathering, ate food she loved and shared memories. My brother-in-law brought pictures and one of her favorite stuffies (which she was unapologetic about loving). We laughed, shed some tears and I think marked the occasion well.

Our nephew asked why we would do such a thing? To him it seemed weird to make a big to do over a day that brought such sadness. Wouldn’t it be better to just move on and not remind ourselves how much we missed her? I suppose that’s why many people wouldn’t create a “celebration” of the person they lost. It is painful to remember. It is also joyful and fun. My sister was joyful and fun. She would want to be remembered with silly stories and laughter. We also talked about the hard stuff, relived some of those last days. Even there, we remembered how God held us together. How peaceful she was in her last weeks, quietly letting go of the fight. And she had fought bravely and hard.

Even if I could forget my sister, I wouldn’t want to. She was such an important part of my life. We shared so many wonderful experiences together. I wish I could remember the sound of her laugh, I remember it was lovely. I remember her laughing and what could make her laugh, but not the sound of it. Others said they could still hear her laugh. I can’t. I can hear certain predictable comments she would make with a certain look in her eye and quirk of her mouth – especially regarding our other siblings. I can hear the timber of her voice as she’d say, “he’s just weird.”

I told my nephew we mark the one year point because it’s a milestone. All last year we could say, “a year ago she was with us and we…” We can no longer do that. She wasn’t here a year ago today. It’s a day to mark moving on. Experiences we won’t share, new people she won’t meet, jokes she won’t know. That is the bitter sweetness of it. We go forward without her. Every day I think of things I want to tell her. I suppose I always will. 

Most importantly, for my nephew who doesn’t really have a strong faith belief in much of anything, we could live out what we believe with all of our being – our sister, friend and wife is in heaven, with the God she loved. We have no doubts. It is this hope that gives us peace going forward without her. It is what gave her peace as she labored through her last days here. If we didn’t have that hope, remembering her would be excruciating. If there was nothing more, but we believe there is much more.

People might say I’ve given myself some lovely “pie in the sky” pipe dreams to hold on to. Whatever it takes to make us feel better, and so on. But we do indeed actually believe in life after death with our Creator in heaven. We didn’t make it up to make us feel better. In fact, we don’t really feel better at all, just at peace that all is well. We will one day be together again. I, and my family, can firmly say together, “I know Whom I have believed and am convinced that He is able to keep that which I’ve committed to Him against that day.”  II Timothy 1:12

It was a lovely celebration, full of good good and lots of laughter. I, for one, intend to go on celebrating the wonderful gift that was my sister.