The Verb of God

The Word became a human being and lived here with us (John 1:14, CEV).  It’s a beautiful truth for any time of year, but one that’s in the forefront as Christmas approaches. The Word existed in the beginning, John tells us, giving light and life to all. Then, so humans could become children of God, the Word entered our world.

Like most Christians, I’ve always found the passage to be a deeply meaningful meditation on Jesus. It sank deeper in me, though, when I first read it in the RVA version of my Spanish Bible. “En el principio era el Verbo . . . y aquel Verbo fue hecho carne,” I read. “In the beginning was the Verb . . . and that Verb was made flesh.”

Jesus was God’s Verb. I was so taken by the idea that I remember exactly where I was sitting when I read it. I was on a wooden pew in a church in Peru, on the right side and about halfway back, and when I read the passage I stopped hearing anything being said.

I’m not equipped to make a case for whether or not “Verb” is a good translation for “Logos,” the word used in the original language. Logos is evidently a complex term not easily translated into either English or Spanish. I just want to sit for a minute with the idea of Jesus as God’s Verb and let it trickle down and add new flavor to the Christmas story.

Verbs are action words. They’re more than being: they’re doing. You can’t have a sentence without one. Because he wanted to give us the right to become children of God, Jesus came. He took the noun of God’s love and made it a verb.

I think the idea has implications for how we experience Jesus and for how we reflect his character, too. It’s easy to get stuck in the “being” place. We’re new creatures. We’re reborn. We’re God’s children. That’s an immeasurable treasure, but maybe in some sense it’s not a full sentence. To follow the Verb of God means that being leads to doing.

As Christmas approaches, I hope we can not only reflect on the amazing truth that Jesus entered our dirtied, hurting world for us, but on how we can follow his example of loving excluded people with our hands, feet, and voice as well as our heart. Do you know someone with a chronic illness or disability, for example, who could use some “verbing” from you? Meeting practical needs is a way to follow Jesus into the world. It’s a way to return love to the one who loved us so much that he became flesh.

Defending the Church

I recently heard a pastor with autism talk about the challenge of trying to represent both the Christian community and the autism community and I felt his dilemma deep in my soul. I experience the same tension, with one foot in the Christian world and one foot in the world of people with chemical sensitivities. In order to speak for the chemically sensitive, and for those with other illnesses and disabilities, I have to point out blind spots in the church and talk about things the Christian community isn’t doing particularly well right now. On the other hand, my Christian faith is the foundation of my life, I truly value what the church can offer, and I want my fellow travelers to know the hope and peace that can be found there.

Several times in the past few months, people have commented to me that they think religion (and Christianity in particular) has done more harm than good. Given that, and the fact that I’ve written more posts than usual lately that are critical of the church, I thought I’d turn the tables today and briefly highlight a few tangible ways the church makes a very positive difference in the world.

Let’s start with the United States and with the impact of faith-based social initiatives. It’s not easy to fully quantify that, but a 2016 study tried. Researchers from Georgetown University and the Newseum Institute looked at the economic impact of religious congregations, institutions, and businesses and determined that the economic contribution of religion in America was $1.2 trillion, which is equal to the world's 15th largest economy.

As one of the study authors put it, “In an age where there's a growing belief that religion is not a positive for American society, adding up the numbers is a tangible reminder of the impact of religion. Every single day individuals and organizations of faith quietly serve their communities.” They noted that religious organizations ran 130,000 alcohol and drug abuse recovery programs, 121,000 programs offering support and training for the unemployed, and 94,000 programs supporting veterans and their families.

Feeding people is also something religious communities do well. A 2022 article in the journal BMC Public Health analyzed food banks in 12 states and found that 63% were faith-based operations. The article notes that many volunteers are motivated by their religious faith and warns that as America sees a decrease in religious participation we may also see less food assistance.

How about the impact of western Christians overseas? In 2012, an important study was published, which was based on 15 years of research and won awards from the American Political Science Association and the American Sociological Association.  It was entitled “The Missionary Roots of Liberal Democracy,” and as the title implies, it determined that Protestant missionaries greatly influenced the rise and spread of democracy around the globe.

The study author, Robert Woodberry, notes that the effects are “quite huge.” They also seem to be dose-dependent. An article on the study says this: “The more missionaries that came, the longer they stayed, and the more freedom they had, the better the outcomes, even a century or two on. Woodberry checks these off: longer life expectancy, lower infant mortality, higher literacy and educational enrollment, more political democracy, lower corruption, higher newspaper circulation, higher civic participation, and on and on.”

We all base our perceptions on experience as well as objective data, and if you’ve felt hurt by the church, your feelings are valid and I’m sorry for your pain. There’s more to the story, though. No, the church doesn’t always do everything right, but it does a lot more right than we often give it credit for.

I Hear Doors Slamming Shut: A Response to Tish Harrison Warren

I saw the headline “Why Churches Should Drop Their Online Services” and I felt myself tensing up. Would writer Tish Harrison Warren even address the issue of people with chronic illness or disabilities? What would her reasoning be for shutting the doors of access that had so recently opened? 

Because the New York Times opinion piece was behind a paywall, I wasn’t able to read it until Saturday, when a friend with a subscription shared it. As a result, I’m a little late to this conversation. On the positive side, the delay has given time for plenty of other people to say important things that I can quote.

First, here’s a brief synopsis of the argument Warren gives for dropping online services. She says that dropping the online option is “the way to love God and our neighbors” because our bodies “are part of our deepest humanity, not obstacles to be transcended through digitization.” She believes that online worship diminishes us as people because only in-person gatherings let us worship with our whole heart, soul, mind, and strength. She doesn’t think having both online and in-person options is appropriate, because “offering church online implicitly makes embodiment elective.”

Warren did address the illness/disability question. She said, “No longer offering a streaming option will unfortunately mean that those who are homebound or sick will not be able to participate in a service. This, however, is not a new problem for the church. For centuries, churches have handled this inevitability by visiting these people at home in person.”

I have many, many thoughts about what she has to say. Here are a few of them.

1.     When Warren asserts that dropping the online option is the way to love God and our neighbors, the question that comes to mind is the same one that the law expert asked Jesus in Luke 10:29: “Who is my neighbor?” The parable of the Good Samaritan, which followed the question, contained an account of religious leaders who ignored someone with a wounded body. They evidently didn’t consider him a neighbor, so the instruction to “love your neighbor as yourself” was one they could comfortably ignore. Am I your neighbor? Restricting my access to corporate worship is certainly not the way to love me.

I also truly fail to see how shutting people out is somehow the way to love God. Matthew 25:40 tells us a good way to do that. “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’”

2.    When Warren says that bodies “are not obstacles to be transcended through digitization” I wonder if she believes in trying to transcend our physical limits at all. Should we stop praying when we’re hungry or sleepy? Should we stop singing praise songs when we have an itchy mosquito bite? We find ways to transcend the challenges of our bodies all the time. Transcending is a good thing. If my body won’t let me in your church building (or, said another way, you won’t let me in by not making your building accessible), give me an online option so I can transcend.

3.    Worshipping with our whole heart, soul, mind and strength looks different to people with varying levels of physical health. When I worship from home, I AM worshipping with all my strength. My physical limitations and need for online access don’t “diminish” me and my online presence doesn’t somehow weaken the church.

4.    The idea that offering an online option makes in-person worship an elective only applies to people for whom it was already an elective before the online option arose. It was impossible for me to attend in person before online options came to be and it will be impossible if online options go away.

5.    No, the fact that there are people who are homebound isn’t a new problem, but we have new solutions, and when they’re already in place, it seems foolish (and greatly lacking in compassion) to remove them. I also take issue with the assumption that churches have met the needs of the disabled and chronically ill population by visiting people at home. There’s so much I could say on the topic, but I’ll simply note that only a tiny percentage of homebound Christians I know get any sort of in-person visit, and even when they do, they would still like to hear the sermon. Also, how do you reach new people? How do you identify the homebound who are shut out of your church?

6. A few months ago I read Warren’s book “Prayer in the Night.” In it, she talks about the vulnerability of joy — the idea that even in joyful moments, there can be a sense of melancholy because we feel their impermanence. I felt the vulnerability of joy when churches began to digitally open their doors to those of us who’ve been shut out. It’s ironic and sad that Warren is now advocating for making a joyful reality unnecessarily impermanent.

Other Voices 

These are some of the things I’ve read in response to Warren’s piece that I think are worth sharing.

***

A Baptist News article quotes pastor Marc Schelske who said that after going online “it only took a few weeks to learn that we were doing something we should have done years ago. . . . The view of embodied worship on display in the op-ed is only one that works for able-bodied people with weekends off work. There’s just no way around that. I love gathered worship. I love the comfortable practices and traditions I’m used to. But the pandemic has made it clear that those comfortable practices were also exclusionary, and I’m convinced that following Jesus must lead us toward hospitality and inclusion.”

***

A Religion Dispatches article entitled Ending Zoom church is a great idea for a column – provided you completely ignore the disability perspective includes some important insight from disability advocate Samir Knego. He says, “There’s something deeply condescending and ableist about the idea that proponents of online church options don’t believe or understand that ‘bodies . . . are part of our deepest humanity, not obstacles to be transcended through digitization.’ Bodies that require assistance are still bodies.” 

Knego also notes that he’s not surprised at the idea that people with physical challenges should be relegated to “an apparently inferior level of engagement with worship.” He says the idea “frames disabled parishioners as the objects of charity rather than allowing us to attend church on our own terms.”

“Disabled people are so rarely believed to have spiritual insight in our own right,” he adds. “At best, we’re an example for nondisabled people to learn from, or feel happy that they aren’t like us. . . . . If you don’t think—or care—that disabled people are part of your community, then perhaps it’s not surprising that you won’t feel the need to include or consider us.”  

***

A Religion News article entitled “Streaming online has been a boon for churches, a godsend for isolated” quotes from a Texas A&M report which found that “with the shift online, churches were shocked to discover the ways that an online service can become a wide-reaching net.” The article also reports on a study of the pandemic approach of 2,700 congregations from 38 denominations which found that “churches with a hybrid approach — with both in-person and online services — saw reported worship attendance growing by 4.5%. Churches that only met in person saw attendance decline by 15.7%.”

***

From a Sojourners article by Melissa Florer-Bixler:

“I care deeply about the embodied experience of people physically distant from the place where some of us gather for in-person worship. The people who utilize Zoom worship do, too. They would love to be near children running across the sanctuary and to feel the bass line hum in the air. They would prefer if dementia, Parkinson’s disease, and compromised immune systems didn’t keep them from pressing their palm into the hand of another or bringing a piece of bread from a common loaf to their lips.”

“Rather than shutting down our Zoom option, our worship commission met to discuss how we can creatively and intentionally deepen participation and fleshy community among those who are separated from localized worship and fellowship. We decided to have one of the weekly scripture passages read by someone on Zoom. We’ve asked some families to prepare special music, sung from their living rooms.”

***

And finally, in a post called Why Churches Should Continue Their Online Services, Danny Guldin says this:

“Yes, our bodies are important. Yet, they do not define who someone is or can be. Our bodies are fragile. The love of God is not.“

 “Many churches made technological leaps they would never have made had we not been pressed to do so. Online worship is not a problem to be solved; instead, it is a gift that empowers the church to reach more people than ever before and expand our idea of what the Christian community can truly be.”

Dust, Debris, and Unanswered Questions

Folks who’ve been reading this blog for a while know that I love the Biblical book of Job and I return to it on a regular basis. Here are a couple of new musings. 

I’ve been studying the book with a group, and last week we looked at what’s probably its best known verse, Job 19:25. That’s the spot where Job, in the middle of striving with his friends who just keep insisting he must have brought his sufferings on himself, seems to change the subject and suddenly declares “I know that my Redeemer lives, and he will stand upon the earth at last.” (NLT)

I learned a couple of interesting things about this declaration. The first is that the word often translated “earth” can also be translated “dust.”  Other translations of the term include ashes, debris, rubbish, or rubble.

This brings new images to mind, doesn’t it?  Maybe the idea is that when everything that once seemed solid deteriorates, collapses, or crumbles to the ground, what we can count on to still be standing is our loving, rescuing God. Author Terry Betts explains that the verse literally says that our redeemer will “stand against the dust.” He’s the counterpoint. He’s the one who says “The dust is not the end. I can use it to create new life.” The Literal Standard Version says “He raises the dust.” 

The second thing I had never really noticed about this verse is what comes immediately before it. In verses 23 and 24 Job says, “Oh, that my words could be recorded. Oh, that they could be inscribed on a monument, carved with an iron chisel and filled with lead, engraved forever in the rock.” 

What words did he want engraved? The ones he used to maintain his innocence. He was undoubtedly worn out by the unending conversations with his friends and of the constant need to defend himself and his integrity. Betts says “He feared he would die before he was vindicated and cleared of all the false accusations his friends had cast at him. He wanted a permanent statement that would put the record straight.”

It’s in this setting that Job talks about his redeemer, a term which carries the idea of being freed from bondage or oppression by enemies. Job undoubtedly felt oppressed by his enemy-friends. He wanted to be rescued from their false narrative and he believed that God would do it.

Here are a couple of translations of the verse that get at that idea:

“I know that my defender lives.” (GW)  

 “I know there is someone in heaven who will come at last to my defense.” (GNT)

 “I know that my Vindicator is alive.” (ISV)

Yes, our Vindicator is alive and he graciously responded to Job’s desire for a permanent record of his innocence. We have it in the book that bears Job’s name. It’s his vindication, and to a degree it’s vindication for all of us who need it, including those who suffer from poorly understood illnesses that get blamed on sin, lack of faith, negative thinking, hypochondria, selfishness, a desire for attention, or a million other things. I’m so grateful that God recorded Job’s story.

**

The second brief musing is simply a parallel I noticed recently between a passage in C. S. Lewis’s brilliant book “A Grief Observed” and what happens at the end of the book of Job.

At the end of Job, there’s restoration, but God doesn’t directly respond to Job’s statements or questions about his suffering. In fact, Job says to God in 42:3 “You asked, ‘Who is this that questions my wisdom with such ignorance?’ It is I—and I was talking about things I knew nothing about, things far too wonderful for me.”

The restoration came from relationship and not from a totality of answered questions. In 42:5 Job explains, “I had only heard about you before, but now I have seen you with my own eyes.”

“A Grief Observed” is the journal that Lewis wrote after his wife died. He asks many of the questions Job did. God feels distant to him. Then, at one point, there’s this:

“When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of ‘No answer.’ It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, ‘Peace, child; you don’t understand.’

Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable? Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable. How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round?  Probably half the questions we ask – half our great theological and metaphysical problems – are like that.”

If you’re struggling today, I know you want answers, and I hope you get them. You may want vindication, and if so, I hope you get that, too. Mostly, though, I hope you can find peace: the peace of knowing that our redeemer lives and can stand against and transform the dust.

Welcome to My Planet

It’s certainly been an interesting week or two.  So much of the time I feel like my life, both past and present, has been and is so different from the norm that I’m like an alien, living in an alternate universe.  Lately people have been visiting my planet, and I’m curious to see the effects of that.

The COVID-19 preparations and precautions have led to a bad news/potentially good news situation for those of us with chemical illness.  The bad news is that the masks and mask inserts that environmentally ill people often rely on to navigate the toxin-saturated world have been unavailable or are costing far more than normal.  This unfortunately comes at a time when there are exponentially more problematic disinfectants and hand sanitizers being used than usual.  People with chemical illness are reporting having no safe places left other than their own homes.  Many are needing family members to immediately shower and change clothes when they return from being anywhere at all. 

Maybe some good will come from all this, though.  These are some things I’d love to see:

1. I hope that people will get used to seeing others wearing masks.  Recently I’ve heard healthy people talk about wearing masks in public and feeling they look like oddballs or freaks.  I assume that means they think that’s what I look like when I wear one.  It would be nice if the look became a little more commonplace and acceptable.

2. I’d love for churches and other organizations to improve their webcast and video conference offerings.  I hope churches that don’t currently stream their services will decide to do it.  I hope churches that already do will make improvements (like making sure the volume is adequate and providing the words to the songs being sung).  If churches could figure out how to make Bible study and other small group gatherings accessible to those of us who can’t enter the church building, it would be a wonderful silver lining to the current challenging circumstances.

3. I’d be thrilled if the situation led to more understanding and compassion for people with chemical illness.  We were doing social distancing before it was cool and we’re very familiar with the feelings of loneliness and isolation.  The frustration and grief of not being able to attend events we would love to attend is a daily part of our lives. When those of you who are healthy return to full participation in society, I hope you’ll remember that some of us can’t do that without your help.  The virus threat will diminish, but the threat of synthetic fragrances, pesticides, and other chemicals will remain.

Masks and staying at home aren’t the only things I’ve had experience with. I lived in Peru during a time when there were empty store shelves and a cholera epidemic among other challenges (like terrorism, political uncertainty, and inflation of 10,000 percent).  I’m feeling less anxious about the current situation than a lot of people seem to be because it isn’t new to me.  What I learned during those years is that people are resilient.  We can find ways around challenges when we work together and help each other.  Mostly what I learned was that God’s peace expands to fill the space we give it.  When we stop to breathe, we realize that God is in us and around us and holding us tight.

It’s not just the COVID-19 situation that has made this an interesting week or two.  If you count both dates, there are nine days between the anniversary of my sister’s death on March 7th and the anniversary of my husband’s death on March 15th.  Those nine days tend to be some of the most emotionally challenging of the year for me.  This year, in the middle of my “just get through it” time, I finally crossed the finish line of my excruciatingly long book publishing process.  It’s done.  The book (Chemicals and Christians: Compassion and Caution) can be purchased on Amazon, Christianbook, or through Redemption Press.  I don’t know what to make of the timing, but I’m grateful to have finally reached this point.  Thank you for your prayers and support. Thank you for being interested enough in this topic to read my blog. Thank you for wanting to know what it’s like on my planet.

The Christmas Lamb

We know the Christmas story. At least we think we do. Unfortunately, a lot of what we think we know isn’t actually in the Bible. The Bible doesn’t tell us, for instance, that there were three wise men. It only says there were at least three gifts. It doesn’t tell us that Mary rode on a donkey. It never mentions an innkeeper. When we think about the actual physical location of Jesus’s birth, it’s easy to picture some sort of barn-like structure behind an inn because that’s the way it’s usually portrayed on Christmas cards and in pageants and movies, but maybe our mental image needs to be tweaked.

Over the years I’ve heard various speculations about the structure that sheltered Jesus during his entry into the world. I learned that the word often translated as “inn” (“There was no room for them in the inn”) can also be translated as lodging place or guest room. One theory is that Mary and Joseph were staying in the home of extended family members, but that because the house was full, they stayed on the lower level, where animals were housed at night.

I think that’s an interesting theory, but a few years ago I stumbled on another one that I found even more interesting. It was evidently first proposed by Alfred Edersheim in a book called The Life and Times of Jesus The Messiah. Edersheim says that it was settled Jewish thought that the messiah would be born in Bethlehem. I think most of us are familiar with that belief, based on Micah 5:2. What we may be less familiar with is the related belief, based on Micah 4:8, that the messiah would be revealed from a place called Migdal Eder, also known as the “tower of the flock.”  Edersheim proposes that Jesus was actually born in the tower. Others believe that he was born nearby, perhaps in a cave.

So what exactly was this tower of the flock?  It was an ancient structure originally built as a lookout tower to protect the city from enemies. The Old Testament has many references to similar towers. These watchtowers became known as towers of the flock because shepherds used them to spot predators. The shepherds could also bring the ewes inside the towers to give birth, or they could bring them to nearby caves prepared for the purpose.

The Migdal Eder theory really starts to get interesting when we learn that the shepherds and sheep that grazed near and used the tower in Bethlehem weren’t just any shepherds and sheep. Edersheim says this: "This Migdal Edar was not the watchtower for the ordinary flocks that pastured on the barren sheep ground beyond Bethlehem, but it lay close to the town, on the road to Jerusalem. A passage from the Mishnah (Shekelim 7:4) leads to the conclusion that the flocks which pastured there were destined for Temple sacrifices."

Sheep destined for sacrifice needed to be tended carefully, because only lambs without flaws were acceptable. Some writers have said that when lambs were born, they were wrapped, or swaddled, in order to protect them from injury. Other writers say they can’t find evidence that occurred. Whether or not lambs were commonly swaddled at birth, they were bound in strips of cloth before they were sacrificed. If Jesus was born in or near Migdal Eder, perhaps he was wrapped in the swaddling bands used for the lambs being prepared to be offered as payment for sin.

I don’t know whether Jesus was born in the tower of the flock, a nearby cave, something like a modern barn, the bottom floor of a private home, or somewhere else entirely. I do really like the Migdal Eder theory, though, for two main reasons.

The first is that it answers the question of how the shepherds knew where to find Jesus, since the angels evidently didn’t give any more information other than that he was in Bethlehem, in a manger, and swaddled. Actually, the original language may not have said “a manger” at all, but “the manger.” Some have pointed out that in the original text, the Greek word “ho” (Strong’s G3588) is used, which is the definite article and should have been translated as “the” instead of “a.”  Perhaps when they heard the baby was in the manger, the shepherds knew exactly where to go.

The second reason I like the theory is simply that it makes complete logical sense for Jesus to be born where the sacrificial lambs were born. 1 Corinthians 5:7 tells us that “Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed.” 1 Peter 1:18-19 says that “God paid a ransom to save you . . . . And it was not paid with mere gold or silver, which lose their value. It was the precious blood of Christ, the sinless, spotless Lamb of God.” It wasn’t an accident that Jesus was crucified at Passover. It wasn’t without significance that during his last meal, Jesus took a cup of wine and said “This is my blood . . . poured out as a sacrifice.” (Mark 14:23)

Arranging for Jesus to be born in or near the tower of the flock seems to me like something God would do. Wherever he was born, he was born for us, to pay the debt we couldn’t pay. Thank you, God, for your amazing plan. Thank you for the precious Christmas lamb.

Justified and Vindicated

I’ve been studying the book of Romans with some friends, which has brought to mind the word “justify” and its various definitions. Theologically, the word means to be declared righteous before God. The mnemonic device I learned growing up was that being justified made it “just as if I” never sinned. I remember once looking at the keyboard on a digital typewriter (in pre-computer days) and seeing the “right justify” key, which would line up the text with the margin of the page. It struck me that what Jesus did for me was similar. My own righteousness couldn’t reach God’s standard, like unjustified text couldn’t reach the margin. I realized that Jesus was my “justify” key and that he could take what I offered him and fill in the gaps, so to speak, to make it line up with the standard of holiness I could never reach on my own. It’s not a perfect analogy, but it helped me appreciate being justified.

Ironically, the common usage of the word “justify” is almost the opposite of the theological one. Theologically speaking, justification starts with the truth that no one is fully righteous. In everyday usage, however, being justified involves a person being unjustly accused or doubted, then being shown to be in the right.

I find I need both kinds of justification. I’m certainly a sinner in need of great grace. I also find, however, that in specific situations, I long for someone to step in and defend me. In my last post, I asked God to vindicate me, which is a similar concept. Someone asked what I meant and I had trouble articulating it well. This is my attempt at a fuller answer.

I've learned that I feel beaten down, not only by things that people say directly to me, but things that people say about others with whom I identify. I suspect that we all have this tendency to some extent, but maybe some of us are more sensitive to it than others. Take, for example, what people say about other widows. Recently, within the span of a few days, I heard two different people make offhanded comments about widows they knew. The first commented that one seemed to be having a hard time. (Note to self – don’t share with anyone when you’re grieving). The second person commented that she was afraid another widow was too stoic and not allowing herself to mourn. (Note to self – make sure to share with everyone when you’re grieving.)

A few days after I heard those comments I ran across a blog post by a widow defending a widower who had recently announced his engagement. (Don’t read it if it will bother you that the post contains both a Bible verse and the phrase “dear ignorant, judgmental a**holes.”) The writer’s palpable anger, which was echoed in hundreds and hundreds of comments, reinforced the truth that when you attack one of us in this widowhood club, it feels like an attack on all of us.

The chronic illness club is another one I find myself a member of, and negative judgments about people who are ill pour down like rain. The list of accusations feels almost endless: people have made themselves sick, they remain sick because they are afraid or don’t really want to get well, they use their illnesses to manipulate people, they exaggerate their symptoms, they aren’t trying hard enough to heal, they aren’t smart enough to know the right treatments, and on and on it goes. In the Christian world other messages get piled on: they aren’t praying enough, they don’t have enough faith, they’re being punished for sin, they’ve let Satan gain a foothold in their life. There are also accusations that are specific to given conditions. People with chemical sensitivities are often freely ridiculed and maligned for things like wearing masks to protect themselves or asking for accommodations. Yesterday I read an article that used the word “tyrants” when referring to us.

I feel very grateful to live in the digital age, when information and connection is so easy to access. There’s some information, however, that I’m not sure I want to know. Blog and social media posts, along with their associated comments, pull back the curtain of denial and paint a stark and depressing picture of how judgmental and accusatory we all tend to be. I’m not saying anything new when I note how easy it is to type things online we would never say to someone’s face or in the physical presence of bystanders who might be sensitive to the message. I read things every day that make me sad and angry, and I don’t know what to do with those emotions. Sometimes people do say accusatory things directly to me, which is painful, but at least gives me the option of response. But what do I do with the anger I feel at the accusations of countless unnamed fellow humans who all seem to have an opinion about widows, women, those with low incomes, Christians, people over 50 and the chronically ill?

It’s easy to say that it doesn’t matter what other people think. There’s certainly some truth in that. At the end of the day, only God’s opinion really counts. But caring what people think also serves a certain purpose in society, helping people understand norms and promoting cohesion. It’s a natural human behavior. Biblical writers, especially psalmists, asked for vindication or justification frequently. Here are a few examples, taken from a variety of translations:

Psalm 7:8b – “Declare me righteous, O LORD, for I am innocent, O Most High!”

Psalm 26:1 – “Vindicate me, O LORD, for I have walked in my integrity, and I have trusted in the LORD without wavering.”

Psalm 35:24 – “Declare me not guilty, O LORD my God, for you give justice. Don't let my enemies laugh about me in my troubles.”

Psalm 43:1 – “Declare me innocent, O God! Defend me against these ungodly people. Rescue me from these unjust liars.”

Psalm 82:3b – “Vindicate the oppressed and suffering.” (Another translation says “Justify the poor and the meek.”)

I believe that my anger is justified (there’s that word again), but it doesn’t feel especially helpful. As I work through this issue and try to process my feelings, I’ve found solace not only in realizing that Biblical writers shared the same desire to be defended from unfair judgments, but that God promises to do just that. This is my hope:

Isaiah 50:7-9a – Because the Sovereign Lord helps me, I will not be disgraced. Therefore, I have set my face like a stone, determined to do his will. And I know that I will not be put to shame. He who gives me justice is near. Who will dare to bring charges against me now? Where are my accusers? Let them appear! See, the Sovereign Lord is on my side! Who will declare me guilty?

A Psalm of Lament

I've tried to hold the world for countless years
Assume its pain and take its blows
Punched, bruised, knocked face down
I spit out rocks and teeth
Mud caked and bleeding, I crawl back to you, my God

You ask much
From your servants
You ask much
I’ve been faithful
Pouring myself out
Until only drops remain

Isn't enough enough?
Hasn’t the time arrived for healing and relief?
I wait
I wait
I wait

I wait my turn as those who've never tasted suffering skip around me
They glance my direction, fling accusations
Then dart away

Vindicate your child, my Lord
Vindicate and heal
Pull me from the dirt into your lap
Let me rest there as you set the world in order

I cannot hold the world
Not even my own
My hands are far too small
Teach me what to hold and what to free
Help me be faithful in a world that’s just too big
A world that, like a child in pain, fights back

You, oh Mighty Creator, dwarf the world you made
Your majesty envelops and overwhelms
You hold it all
Nothing will slip away

You hold me and I am secure
You encourage and teach
Comfort and restore
You see the blows, wash my wounds, and share my tears

The waiting will one day be forgotten
You will set the world in order
You will vindicate and heal

Until that day
I will always crawl back to you

-MM

Finished

I’m currently engaged in a building project, trying to cobble together a new home for myself on the altered landscape of my life. Almost every day, someone -- a friend, family member, or delivery driver, asks some version of the same question. “Are you finished?”

This isn’t a post about my suite, so I’ll spare you the details, but the short answer to the question is no. I paid for the basics and am completing the rest myself, which I knew would be a long process. I did expect the rough-in to be finished less than 6 months after the estimated completion date, and I didn’t expect the electrician’s work to fail multiple inspections, requiring a series of long waits for him to return. But I digress.

Finished. The word has been echoing in my head. No, my suite isn’t finished, but many other things are, or at least appear to be.

The married-to-Dan phase of my life is finished. Obviously, it ended the day he died, but I was surprised at the extent to which the moving process reawakened the grief. I left the last home I will have ever shared with him; a house that was full of memories which swirled around me and kept me hanging on to the ethereal threads of the relationship. There’s a stark finality to moving. This is new. The old is gone.

The reawakened grief of widowhood in turn reawakened grief for lost dreams. As years of illness followed one after the other, I gradually released the idea of returning to mission work full time, but I still clung to the hope of someday accompanying Dan on his yearly trips back to Peru. Will I ever minister overseas again? Will I minister outside my own home at all? Is that phase of my life finished?

After decades of illness and living a mostly home-bound life, it’s easy to wonder what my purpose is. It’s easy to feel worthless. The voices of the culture and in my own head whisper that I, myself, am simply finished.

It’s a lie. I remind myself of that. I’m still alive, so I’m not finished. God may call me home in 30 years or 30 minutes, but in this present moment, there’s a purpose to my life. My mind knows that. My heart tries to believe.

As I ponder these thoughts while I work on my suite, it occurs to me that “finish” has multiple meanings. I put a finish on the floor. I use finishing nails to apply trim.

When used in this way, the word does mean that one phase of a project has been completed. It’s completed, though, so that the item can fulfill its intended purpose. It’s a completion that marks a beginning.

Among the tangled jumble of thoughts that the word “finish” prompts, three simple truths float to the surface.

1. Earthly experiences will eventually end. Joyful things end, but painful things also run their course. Sometimes they run their course here on earth, and sometimes our relief will arrive in the age to come. God says in Revelation 21 that in the day when God’s home will be among his people, death, sorrow, crying, and pain will all disappear forever.

2. Some things have no end. God has no end and our relationship with him surpasses time. Among the things that the Bible tells us last forever are God’s presence with us (Hebrews 13:5), his plans and purposes (Psalm 33:11), and his love (Psalm 136:1). 1 Corinthians 13 tells us that faith, hope, and love will endure when other things, which seem important now, fade away.

3. Painful experiences, which are often related to unwelcome endings, can make us feel finished, used up, and discarded. Maybe, though, they are part of the process of putting a “finish” on us which can beautify us and make us more useful for service. An ending can help equip us for a new beginning.

God, please give us your peace as we navigate painful endings and accept human limitations. Help us to remember the difference between things that are temporal and things that are eternal and to focus our time and energy on the things that will endure. Use us in whatever way you choose, and apply whatever “finish” you need to apply to better equip us for the tasks you've prepared for us. Help us to be strong, so that one day, we can say, as Paul did in 2 Timothy 4:7, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”

We've Traveled Long and Far by Night

We've traveled long and far by night
And though we know that God is light
The world is dark; we trip and fall
We stumble, stagger, falter, crawl

And no, we're not completely lost
And yes, the journey's worth the cost
But we're exhausted, spent and sore
And long to rest, renew, restore

But in the dark encircling sky
A star still shines; we hear the cry
Of one who loved and entered earth
To show us what our lives are worth

So like the magi long ago
We'll follow on and we will know
Our savior face to face someday
And darkness will dissolve away

-MM

Who Am I?

The news has been filled in recent days with stories of people identifying with a gender or race other than the one that seemed apparent when they were born. Because of that, I’ve been pondering the issue of identity. How much is chosen for us? How much can we choose for ourselves? Who am I, really?

People define themselves using many criteria. Age, race, and gender are starting points as are marital status and parenthood. We define ourselves by our jobs, our politics, and our faith. For those of us with chronic illnesses, a significant temptation is to let our physical conditions label and define us.

So who am I?

* I am more. I am more than my circumstances. I am more than my diseases. I am more than what the world sees.

Remembering that I’m more than my physical challenges is one of my biggest struggles. My chemical sensitivities, in particular, seemingly invade every corner of my life and affect every decision I make. I can never escape them.

I have long been intrigued by Satan’s reasoning in the book of Job. He asked God for permission to test Job in all sorts of horrible ways, including the death of all ten of his children. The Bible tells us that Job felt great sorrow and grief when confronted with his losses, but that he didn’t accuse God of wrongdoing. So Satan tried again. He proposed to God, “Reach out and take away his health, and he will surely curse you to your face!" (Job 2:5, NLT)

In general, I don’t think it’s helpful to compare suffering. I can’t even imagine the pain Job and his wife must have felt at losing all of their children, and I’m not at all sure that I would have passed Job’s test. I do know the grief, however, of losing my mother when I was a young teenager, and losing my husband last year. They were significant and life-altering losses. It wouldn’t be accurate to say that losing my health was harder than losing my loved ones, but it’s fair to say that it’s a loss with a different flavor. No matter how close the relationship between any two people, there is still a measure of separateness. While living on this earth, however, it is impossible to separate from the physical body. My body feels like me. My illnesses feel like my identity.

It feels that way, but it isn’t the truth. I have beliefs, thoughts, experiences and interests beyond my physical condition and my circumstances. I am more. You are more. Let’s remind ourselves of that.

* I am less. 1 Corinthians 12 describes Christians as parts of a body. Verses 19-21 say “How strange a body would be if it had only one part! Yes, there are many parts, but only one body. The eye can never say to the hand, 'I don't need you.'"

I am less than I can be when I’m not attached to the rest of the body of Christ. Finding a way to attach is a great challenge for anyone with significant chemical sensitivities. Many of us have learned, however, how essential it is to keep trying and how difficult it is to live a full spiritual life alone. Church, you are also less than you are created to be when you don’t find a way to include everyone who wants to be included. God designed us to complement each other and to work together to represent him on this earth.

* I am complete. After my husband died, I began to think about fractions. Our family suddenly seemed incomplete. We seemed like 3/4ths of a family. I realized that I needed to reframe the issue in my mind and stop thinking of my sons and myself as three of four, but as three of three. I needed to change both the numerator and denominator.

I also realized that not only was I seeing my family as incomplete or somehow not enough, but I was also seeing myself that way. Perhaps I was taking on the values of my culture. In the country and time in which I currently live, my race and education work in my favor, but my age, gender, marital and health status work against me.

Fortunately, God doesn’t see me as the world does. Colossians 2:10 tells me that I am complete through my union with Christ. He wants me to continue to grow and develop (the same chapter talks about letting my roots grow down into him), but as I am, I’m enough to be fully loved and accepted.

The Bible tells me that I’m justified through Christ. I’ve heard the term “justified” defined as “just as if I never sinned.” It’s a helpful definition, but I also find it helpful to think about how, when typing, our computers let us “justify” our margins. When we do that, all the gaps are filled in. Every line reaches the edge. God does that for me. He fills in the gaps.

So who am I? Who are you? What defines us? Who defines us?

They aren’t easy questions for anyone, and maybe they’re harder than usual for people with chronic illness. It’s so easy to let ourselves be defined by our diseases, circumstances, or culture. Instead, I want to let God tell me who I am. What he tells me is that I am his deeply loved child. That’s who I am, and that’s enough.

The Journey

I’m about to celebrate a birthday, which has directed my thoughts to all that transpired since the last one. Last year, on the day after my birthday, there was a vote which led to a church split, which is a significant event for church staff members and their families. Then we had a fire. Then my husband died.

It’s been quite a year.

The fact that the path my life has taken has been so hilly and full of curves has made a recent series of events seem even more interesting than it might have been otherwise. Here’s the story.

Dan’s sisters kindly invited me to join them on a trip to Yellowstone, so I gratefully packed up my tent. My oldest son was able to join us and flew into town so that he could drive my car. He had a couple of audiobooks and a variety of music for us to listen to along the way.

We traveled with the others and were usually following rather than leading. As is often the case when exploring a new area, getting from Point A to Point B sometimes required turning around. At one point, just as the lead car was stopping to reverse direction, the singer we were listening to sang “Turn around.” We laughed at that, and turned around.

The next day we found ourselves once again unsure of the route. We found it amusing hat, as we were wandering about, the music asked “Where are we?” and added “There are mountains.”

Those who’ve been to Yellowstone know the excitement of seeing animals in the wild. They also know that the excitement is sometimes tempered with impatience at the traffic jams caused by people stopping in the middle of the road. We were following a car that slowed to watch some buffalo. At that moment, the lyrics coming through our car’s sound system were “Don’t slow down.”

We got a kick out of this narration of our trip. As we headed for home, though, things got even more interesting.

Although we had arrived by a different route, we decided to return by the roads that took us through the Tetons and near the Jackson Hole area of Wyoming. We stopped and enjoyed the beauty. Then we got in the car, turned the music on, and heard the singer sing about being led to Jackson.

The strangest incident occurred later that day. We continued our drive through Wyoming, passing through the Wind River valley. We wondered aloud whether to pronounce it with a short vowel sound or long, unsure of whether the river was named after a breeze or the circuitous route it took. We got our answer. We were listening to an audiobook about an astronaut stranded on Mars. The narrator began discussing a battery—a battery made by the Wind River Company (pronounced with a short vowel sound, by the way). The Wind River mentioned in a book about Mars? My son and I stared at each other in amazement.

There was one day left on our trip. By this time I expected a narration moment and I got one. We had been listening to music and I had been falling asleep. I didn’t want to sleep through the end of the book, though, and I knew we needed to start listening to it soon if we were going to finish it before we got home. As I tried to rouse myself so that we could make the switch, the singer sang “I’ll try to stay awake.”

Was all that coincidence? Some will say so, but that’s not how I see it. I think a merciful God was simply saying, “I see you, Martha. I’m with you on this journey.”

I have no idea what this next year holds. There could be more disasters or a miraculous healing. There could be both. Whatever comes, though, I’m confident that God is with me.

He’s with me on this journey. He's with you, too.

Lessons from Loss

In the four short/long weeks since my husband died, a great number of family members, friends, and strangers have talked or written to me about the importance of fully experiencing the grieving process. I truly appreciate the concern and I absolutely believe in the necessity of acknowledging emotional realities. Still, I must admit that the persistence of the message hasn’t helped ease my anxiety about the future. In addition to my concerns about finances and the simple logistics of living as a homebound, chronically ill widow, I’m also wondering if I’m doing this grieving thing right and what the long-term ramifications are if I’m not.

Sometimes when I have these thoughts, I’m soothed by the fact that I’m not completely new to the grief game. Losing my husband is new, and I’m sure there will be elements of this loss that are deeper and broader and more complicated than any I’ve experienced up to this point. I’ve felt the sting of death before, though. I was two months into my teenage years when my mother died, an event that colored the rest of my life. Then I became chemically ill. Chronic illness brings grief, and chemical illness has special challenges that deepen it.

I was a missionary living overseas when illness struck. When I lost my health I also lost my job, my identity, my home, my friends, and my culture. It was easy to feel sorry for myself and to believe on some level that my losses were greater than what most people experience. Eventually, however, I came to see that the majority of people with serious chemical illness are forced to give up all those things as well. There are also less tangible losses, such as of independence, security, and the ability to participate in things that were once enjoyable. Dreams for the future die. Family relationships change. For Christians, some of the deepest pain often comes from being unable to attend church and feeling excluded from Christian fellowship. Dr. Pamela Gibson, in her book Multiple Chemical Sensitivity: A Survival Guide states, “If the effects of MCS could be summed up in three words, those words might be loss, loss, and more loss.”

I’ve learned lessons from dealing with the losses brought by illness. I hope these lessons will help me navigate the new waters ahead. Only time will tell. Much of what I’ve learned is from watching others who’ve walked and are walking the toxic illness road. I’ve watched people who’ve been severely battered by life hang onto faith, practice forgiveness and grace, and get up time and time again after being knocked down. I’ve been truly inspired by the examples of some of the strongest, most resilient people I know.

Maybe what I’ve learned so far will help me in the next phase of my life journey and maybe it won’t. Maybe something I’ve learned will help someone else, too, or maybe it won’t. I share here in the hope that it might. Here’s some of what I’ve learned so far about handling grief and loss.

• There can be really horrible days. That doesn’t negate the fact that there can also be good days, or even good hours in the horrible days. Life will always be a mixture of pain and joy. I can allow myself to feel both without betraying my heart.

• I've heard it said that pain hollows out valleys for joy to fill, and I've found that to be true. Pain enhances appreciation for the beautiful aspects of life.

• I need to bring my feelings into the light so I can talk to God about them. He wants my honesty.

• Every aspect of life is better when I spend consistent time in Bible Study and prayer. It’s amazing how many times I’ve had to re-learn that truth.

• There’s a line somewhere between acknowledging and accepting negative emotions and wallowing in them. There is power in honesty and there is likewise power in “thinking on the good things” (Phil. 4:8).

• It’s possible to both accept things as they are today and strive for change that will make things better tomorrow.

• Physical pain tends to enhance and deepen emotional pain. I can feel bad emotionally without feeling bad physically, but the reverse is less often true. It’s often helpful to remind myself that life will look rosier when the physical pain lessens. (And I will never stop striving and praying for physical health.)

• Certain toxic exposures cause emotional reactions. I’ve personally found that synthetic fragrances tend to produce anger in me and mercury and mold cause depression. It’s just another reason to avoid toxins as much as I possibly can.

• Sometimes I can discover an untrue or unhelpful belief underlying an emotion. For me, the most common unhelpful belief is that things will never change.

• There’s a lot of danger in looking too far ahead and in letting my imagination run wild. Only God knows the future. If I’m going to imagine, I can imagine positive scenarios as well as negative ones. The important thing is for me to remember that God’s presence and grace will accompany whatever the future holds.

• Looking ahead can be positive in one important way. It’s very helpful for me to always have at least one small thing to look forward to.

• People can’t read my mind. If I need extra support on a given day, I need to tell someone.

• Sometimes people surprise me with their kindness and support. They aren’t always the people I would have imagined.

• I need to guard against the tendency to become jealous of people who haven’t had the same types of losses I’ve had.

• Small pleasures, like reading a good book or receiving a phone call from a friend, can make a big difference in my emotional state.

• It’s enormously helpful to remember that this life isn’t all there is.

• Life is hard, but God is good. His grace is real

Dan McLaughlin

On Saturday, March 15, my husband suddenly and unexpectedly passed from life to life. On a beautiful day, on an enjoyable outing, in the middle of a normal, pleasant conversation, he left the limitations of earth and entered the joy of heaven. My grief is deep. I loved him. I relied on him. I’ll miss him more than I can possibly say.

I realize that I’m not an objective observer, but I can say in all honesty that Dan was a remarkable man. He was brilliant, funny, talented and faithful. Since his death, the words “most” and “best” have been spoken and written over and over by those who knew him. People have called him “the best husband and father I’ve ever seen,” “the most godly person I’ve ever met,” and “the best man I’ve ever known.”

Dan lived life wide open. Once he met you, you were his friend. Once you were his friend, he would serve you and share all of himself with you. He used to simply say, “I like to be useful.” He was a servant, through and through.

I don’t claim to understand the mystery of the relationship between God’s sovereignty, man’s free will, and natural law. Certainly God knows the time of each person’s death. Does that mean that he sets a specific day and hour for each of us? I’m not going to even try to tackle that question. Here’s what I do know about the timing of Dan’s death:

• Dan had recently spent quality time with most of his family. In February, he flew to Virginia to visit his father. Not long after that, he and I took the campervan south for a wonderful, relaxing trip to Florida, stopping to visit our oldest son in Nashville on the way down and back. We aren’t left with many “I wish we had spent more time together” regrets.

• I have a part-time job writing articles for an addiction treatment network. One of my topic assignments for the week before Dan died was on coping with the death of a loved one.

• One of Dan’s favorite things to do was to sing with and occasionally direct a group of fellow music ministers. Two days before his death, he sang with them and directed the songs “When the Roll is Called up Yonder” and “I’m Bound for the Promised Land.”

• On the morning of the day Dan died, he used his laptop to pull up a clip about heaven and near-death experiences he had been sent. Then he, our youngest son, and I had a nice conversation about heaven just a few hours before he got to see it for himself.

• Dan’s heart attack took place while he was driving us around a state park. We had been on the highway for quite a while before we reached the park grounds. The circumstances of his death would have surely been much worse had we still been on the highway.

• When I saw Dan was in trouble, I flagged down people in the area and someone who knew CPR appeared immediately and kept working until the ambulance arrived. It wasn’t possible to revive him, but I’m not left wondering whether it would have been.

• A Christian family was among those in the area who came to help. When I said I wanted to pray, they prayed with me. I never felt alone.

• Dan died on a Saturday. Sunday’s sermon topic, which had been prepared in advance, was “I am a Citizen of Heaven.”

• The weather has been cooperative. My chemical sensitivities make it extremely difficult to be inside most public places. Amazingly we were able to find a funeral home with a patio, so during the visitation, I was able to be outside, where people could join me as they wished. We held the funeral service at the graveside. If the weather hadn’t been warm enough, it’s hard to imagine how I could have been part of the final goodbyes.

• After his graduation from college, my youngest son traveled to Africa for a while. He returned to the states in December and has been living with us while he looks for a job. The fact that he’s here now is huge.

I’m glad I didn’t know when I married Dan that he would die in his 50s, but if I had known, I would have married him anyway. We had 30 precious years together. As do all couples, we had our disagreements and times of tension, but I never doubted we would work them out and I never wondered about his commitment to me. He took his wedding vows seriously and he cherished me in sickness and in health. I’ve thought several times since his death that there’s more than one way to lose a spouse. Many people with chronic illness are abandoned and deserted by their husbands or wives. Mine was faithful until death and I’m deeply and truly grateful.

My wise sister talks about living in the “tension of the and,” meaning that two apparently contradictory things can both be true. The day after Dan died I opened the curtains to see a robin sitting in a dusting of snow and it seemed like an appropriate allegory. It was winter and it was spring. I know the future holds both pain and peace, fear and faith, loneliness and love.

More than once in my life, I’ve taken a step back and re-examined my theology of suffering. I’ve done the “what ifs.” I believe it was author Sheldon Vanauken who said that he tried to give up his faith and found that he couldn’t – that it was like moving a stone that was too heavy for him. I’ve personally thought of unbelief as a garment. I tried it on and found that it didn’t fit. I wrestle and I question and I rage against the circumstances of life, but I always come back to faith that God is still in control and still working things out for the ultimate good of his children.

I don’t know what the future holds. There are many unanswered questions and I have to fight the temptation to panic. One thing I don’t worry about, however, is whether or not my husband’s spirit lives or whether he is with the Lord. He knew and loved Jesus Christ. He was ready to meet him. If you’re not sure that you’re ready, I urge to you read this page at the website gotquestions.org.

It’s interesting to me that death feels so unnatural, despite the fact that everyone on earth experiences it. We weren’t created for time and death. We were created for eternity. My husband’s earthly body is now uninhabited, but he lives and I’ll see him again. In the meantime, life is going to be even more challenging than it already was. Please pray for me and my sons.

Yellow Butterflies

There are many things on my mind that I could choose to write about this week. In the last month and a half our church split, I leaned some more things about my health, some of which are potentially quite serious, and we had a fire in the garage which filled the house with smoke and displaced me (yet again) from my home. My husband took off for a mission trip overseas and I hung out alone in a campground for five days. I’m now back to hanging out in my campervan in the driveway, while I air out the house and pray it will be habitable quickly. There are so many thoughts and feelings swirling about that it’s hard to know how to corral them into a coherent blog post. Instead of corralling them, I think I’ll ignore most of them and write about yellow butterflies.

The story of the yellow butterflies began in August two years ago. A basement flood and resulting mold growth had left me unable to be inside the house for any significant length of time. I was camped out on the back deck on my birthday, feeling somewhat sorry for myself, when a yellow butterfly landed on the rail beside me. It was just a butterfly, sitting on a deck rail, but because butterflies traditionally represent hope and new beginnings, its presence comforted me. I don’t generally keep a journal or prayer diary, but I do occasionally jot things down, and on that day I wrote the following:

“While I was on the deck I first saw a butterfly that stayed a long time (sign of freedom and change?). Then I saw a praying mantis walking very slowly. Maybe change will come through prayer, but take a while?” 

A few months later, my sister’s life was hit with some significant and painful challenges. As we talked about them, she mentioned that God had spoken a message of hope and peace to her through the appearance of a yellow butterfly. I was fascinated that we had both had the same experience.

From that time on, we both began to notice yellow butterflies. They helped sustain my sister during her crisis. Once, we were talking on the phone (we live 700 miles apart) and she saw one in her yard. As soon as she mentioned it, one appeared in my yard, too. I’ve been to her house once since the first butterfly appearance, for just a few hours, but as we were sitting outside talking, a yellow butterfly flew past.

My friend Linda posts lovely pictures on Facebook and adds scripture verses to them. In July, she posted a picture of a yellow butterfly sitting among a patch of black-eyed susans and purple coneflowers. She used Ephesians 3:20, which is one of my favorite verses (“Now glory be to God, who by his mighty power at work in us is able to do far more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of – infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts, or hopes.”)

I told Linda how much I loved the picture and I told my husband and father-in-law, who was visiting, a little about it and about why it was special to me.

The day after my friend posted the picture, my husband, father-in-law and I went out for a walk. (They walk and I roll in my wheelchair, but I’m not sure what to call that.) We rounded a corner and I was treated to a beautiful sight. A yellow butterfly, identical to the one in the picture, was sitting on identical flowers. We didn’t manage to snap a picture, but my husband and father-in-law both agreed that it was a perfect re-creation of the photo. It seemed that God was reinforcing the message.

I’m writing about yellow butterflies this week, because they keep appearing. Every day in the campground I was greeted by them and sometimes they flew very close to me. I’ve had more yellow butterfly visits since I’ve been home. I realize that they’re a part of nature and that it isn’t as if I’m seeing orange elephants. Whether I’ve seen more yellow butterflies than I should normally expect to see, I don’t really know, but I know they bring me peace.

I’m sure we’ve all heard illustrations of how caterpillars enter into a vulnerable, dark place before they emerge with wings and freedom. I don’t have anything especially insightful to add. I guess I just want to remind myself, and anyone who happens to read this, that things do change, that sometimes increased challenges are a preparation for greater victory, and that no matter how long we’ve crawled along the ground, a day may come when we can fly.

Revisiting the Book of Job

My read-through-the-Bible-in-a-year plan puts me in the book of Job in September. Last year I wrote a post about a particular verse that struck me. Maybe I’ll make it an annual tradition. This year, I was struck by a couple of verses in Chapter Six. Most of the book of Job relates a series of frustrating and nonproductive conversations between the deeply suffering Job and his friends. Chapter Six is part of the conversation, and a few of Job’s comments prompted thoughts about why it is that we humans seem to so often say unhelpful things to each other.

There are a wide variety of ways that our careless remarks can make the suffering of others worse instead of better. Those of us with chronic illnesses are often frustrated when people accuse us of sin (either of being sick because of sin or of lacking faith to be healed) or make statements that imply that we aren’t very bright or don’t really want to get well. (“Have you seen a doctor?”) Often our pain is denied or minimized. People with chemical illness frequently hear “That can’t hurt you” or “I know someone else with your condition and he’s able to do a lot more than you can.”

Sometimes a statement that is absolutely true (“God is in control”) feels unhelpful when we have a fresh or still-tender wound and the remark isn’t paired with some expression of sympathy. Job touched on the problem in verse 26. Although he was referring to criticism rather than to pat responses, he said, “Do you think your words are convincing when you disregard my cry of desperation?” Pain begs to be acknowledged. A fairly neutral remark may also feel unhelpful if we’ve heard it so much that it feels like an attempt to avoid having a real conversation.

All of us fail to respond helpfully to the suffering of others sometimes. Why do we do that? Here are some of the many possible reasons:

Fear – Job mentioned fear in verse 21. He remarked to his friends, “You, too, have given no help. You have seen my calamity, and you are afraid.” What are we afraid of? A basic fear when we encounter the pain of another is that a similar thing could happen to us. Accepting that good people sometimes suffer and that there aren’t always quick and easy ways to escape means that we, too, might someday find ourselves in a painful situation with no obvious way out. Those are scary thoughts and sometimes the response to that fear is to deny the pain exists or conclude that the sufferers are doing something wrong. Surely, we wouldn’t find ourselves in their position, but if we did, we would fix it.

Another fear is that if we acknowledge the suffering as legitimate, we may feel responsible to help alleviate it in some way. That seems to be what Job was implying. After remarking that his friend was frightened by Job’s situation, Job asked, “But why? Have I ever asked you for a gift?”

Differences in theology – I absolutely believe that God can take the messes that humans make and the consequences of living in a fallen world and turn them into something beautiful and good. I believe God has a plan. I believe God is in control. I don’t believe, however, that those truths mean that God’s people won’t suffer on earth. There are people who believe the Bible teaches that true believers are exempt from pain. I personally don’t see how even a quick skimming of the Bible or a quick glance at the world can lead to that conclusion.

One of many, many scripture passages that address the point is the “roll call of faith” in Hebrews 11. The chapter gives a long list of people who were commended for their faith in God. Verses 32 through 38 tell us that some of these heroes overthrew kingdoms, shut the mouths of lions, quenched fire and received loved ones back from the dead. That would be a handy place to stop the narrative, but it continues. We learn that others were tortured, jeered at, imprisoned, oppressed, stoned, and sawed in two. We are told that “they placed their hope in a better life after the resurrection.” That’s the hope. That’s the ultimate plan. Maybe we’ll escape deep suffering on this earth and maybe we won’t.

Guilt – This can play a role in the minimizing of all kinds of suffering, but is often very obvious in the realm of chemical illness. If I suspect on some level, even though I try to deny it to myself, that my decisions or actions may have played a role in someone else’s pain, I can deal with that by telling myself that the other person isn’t really suffering the way they claim to be or that they shouldn’t be and could avoid it somehow.

Lack of empathy – Sometimes we’re just so focused on our own lives we fail to really see and empathize with the struggles of others. This is especially true of struggles that are very different from our own experiences. In verses 5 and 6, Job asked, “Don’t I have a right to complain? . . . Don’t people complain about unsalted food?” Maybe Job was thinking something like, “If I complained about unsalted food you would understand because you can relate, but because my suffering is so far beyond anything you’ve experienced, you want to brush it away and are uncomfortable with me even expressing it.”

I find the lack of empathy for people in situations we can’t imagine often shows itself when people in developed countries talk about the suffering of those in developing ones. People sometimes say things like, “They’re used to it” or “It’s not so bad because everyone there is in the same boat.” If friends or family members lose their jobs, we feel some of their pain because we relate to them and can imagine ourselves in their shoes. On the other hand, we can’t imagine living on two dollars a day in a village with no electricity or running water, so we tell ourselves it can’t really be as hard as it sounds. If people who are “like us” lose a second child, we realize, to some extent, the depth of grief they must be feeling. We don’t generally say, “Well, at least they’re used to it.” It’s hard for us to remember sometimes that people are people and suffering is suffering and that it’s no easier for others to go through painful situations than it would be for us to experience the same thing, even if it’s something beyond what we can really imagine.

Habit – I think sometimes we don’t give responses much thought, but simply answer out of habit. The response to “How are you?” is “I’m fine.” The response to “I’m suffering” is “God has a plan.” I recently corresponded with someone who told me that on one of the very worst days of her life, when her heart was broken into a million pieces, someone said, “I’m excited for you because I know God has a plan.” Excited? Really? That wasn’t the most helpful thing to say on that day. A simple “I’m sorry” is generally helpful. “My heart breaks for you” is helpful. “I’m excited for you” – not so much. Surely that was a response made from habit rather than from thought about how it might be received or whether it was likely to help the situation in any way.

My husband recently introduced me to a song called “Broken Praise” that’s based on the book of Job. The “if” statements in the lyrics don’t resolve to a “then,” which bugs me a bit, but otherwise I think it’s a wonderful song. It captures well some of the frustrations of having pain deepened by the responses of others. It’s worth taking time to listen to.

We all have times when we feel like Job and times when, unfortunately, we act like Job’s friends. I hope we can all learn to do better. If you’re in pain, I’ll try not to tell you I’m excited for you. I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same for me.

Dear Lord, We Give Ourselves to You

Dear Lord, we give ourselves to you
Please make us wise in all we do
May every choice, both large and small
Be made from love; be best for all

We choose to serve. We choose to yield
We choose to let our hearts be healed
We choose to walk the way of grace
With strength we draw from your embrace

We're both your children and your friends
You guide our steps. You mold and cleanse
Lord, make us holy. Make us pure
And fit for use; refined, mature

When we don't understand your ways
We choose to trust. We choose to praise
Our lives are clay in master hands
We trust your heart. We trust your plans

-MM

Rachel’s Children

I, like the rest of the country, am grieving the lives lost in Connecticut yesterday. Every life is precious, and it's important not to overlook the adults who were killed. The murder of so many children, however, is what makes the event especially shocking and painful. Something inside us wants to cry out, "They're just children. They're innocent and vulnerable. And it's almost Christmas." In many ways, Christmas as we observe it in our culture is especially for the young among us, and the fact that the children killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School were denied the celebration their parents were preparing for them deepens the grief.

As I pondered that thought yesterday, I was struck by how incongruous it was. We rightly try to make Christmas celebrations full of joy, peace, and time spent with family, but the original Christmas story contained its fair share of grief, pain, and confusion. In fact, the original story involved parents who grieved for children — innocent, vulnerable children senselessly murdered because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That part of the Christmas story isn't usually portrayed in our pageants or songs, but it's there in the Bible. Matthew 2 relates the story of King Herod's fear that the "newborn king" the wise men came to find would usurp him. When the men returned to their homes without informing Herod of the child's location, he became murderously angry. Verses 16 - 18 say,

Herod was furious when he realized that the wise men had outwitted him. He sent soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under, based on the wise men’s report of the star’s first appearance. Herod’s brutal action fulfilled what God had spoken through the prophet Jeremiah: "'A cry was heard in Ramah — weeping and great mourning. Rachel weeps for her children, refusing to be comforted, for they are dead."

Jesus escaped to Egypt, but other parents lost their children to the whims of a madman. There was a time in my life when I found that especially disturbing. It didn't seem right that God would spare His own child, but leave others to be murdered.

As I worked through those thoughts, however, I came to realize that God ultimately didn't save His child, and that the horrible story actually illustrates some deep truths about the message of Christmas. Christmas is about God coming to live with us here in this mess of a world and about preparing a sacrifice that would be offered to free us from the pain and consequences of sin on the earth. It's about Emmanuel, which means "God with us." He is with us here, in a world that often seems to make no sense. He is with us in a world where innocent children are brutally murdered. Yet, he won't leave us here. He came to prepare the way for a joyful eternity.

Those of us with chronic illnesses have had to learn that Christmas can't always be celebrated the way we would like it to be. We've learned that Christmas means finding the joy that is often hidden in pain. Even before becoming seriously ill, I had Christmas experiences that opened my eyes to the challenges the original Christmas story participants endured. Four times my husband and I moved during the Christmas season. Once I was "great with child." More recently, my chemical sensitivities have led me to sleep, not in a manger, but not in a conventional bed under a conventional roof, either. The experiences remind me that Joseph, Mary, and Jesus didn't live pain-free lives. They had very human experiences in a very challenging world.

I grieve for the children who lost their lives in Connecticut. I grieve for the children who lost their lives in Bethlehem. I grieve for the pain of this fallen world.

But I rejoice in Emmanuel. I rejoice that God Himself is with us. I rejoice that this world isn't all there is and that one day all will be made right. May we cling to Christ tightly this year and remember those truths.