Lightsabers and Job

Lightsabers and Job

For my eighth birthday, my little brother bought me a toy lightsaber. This was remarkably generous of him, being just five-years-old himself. That is until one considers an event which took place about two months prior when he took my previously owned lightsaber (spoiler alert: the birthday gift was a replica) and proceeded to break it over my head. This is why I could never get into medical school.

It was around this age that I also had a fish tank. It housed ten or so fish, all of whom I considered kin. Any death within this tribe hit me like an emotional grenade. I held funerals and marked their backyard graves with rocks that my father, unaware of the sacredness, would run over with the lawnmower.

My sister now has a similar tank for her three-year-old daughter. The other day a couple fish died and her husband rushed to the store to replace them before my niece could notice. I laughed before remembering a handful of times when, as a child, I noticed with some perplexity how my fish would change colors overnight.

The book of Job has always dropped a pit into my stomach—especially the ending, where God rebukes and then “restores” Job. To me, this story feels like God hears all of Job’s grief and accusations, responds with a “because I said so” and then replaces everything Job had lost (“happy now?”).

It’s all well and good to gift someone a toy lightsaber. But if it’s to replace one which you previously broke over their head, then isn’t there an asterisk next to your generosity?

And Job didn’t just lose things. He lost his children, friends, and co-workers; everyone important to Job dies (except his wife, who is promptly villainized). And yet, on a much more significant scale than my sister (and, apparently, my parents), God “honors” and gives Job back “everything in full.” But it’s one thing to replace a goldfish or some camels. It’s entirely another thing to do this with a friend, let alone a child. I just don’t think that falls under “we’re square.”

Job’s story is often held up as one that asks the “hard questions.” To our credit, I’ve been in many churches that have grown comfortable with asking such hard questions. But we’re still horribly uncomfortable with hard answers.

I’ve said before that I question God’s goodness. I question God’s goodness because I want to hold my vision of God to account; I want to believe that the way I imagine God leaves room for improvement. This necessitates me arriving at some sort of conclusion; it requires that I put paint on the canvas and let it dry while admitting that the portrait will fall well short of the one I’m painting.

I hate conflict. It makes me queasy and my palms sweaty, even (especially) with the people I love the most. Because conflict is predicated on vulnerability. And I hate vulnerability. It also makes me queasy and my palms sweaty. To admit “you’ve hurt me”, to make the brazenly honest proposition “that was wrong of you” creates the opportunity to be hurt again. But it also allows the other party to surprise you with their grace.

Humility requires arriving at some sort of belief even while believing that it could be pulled out from under me. I often find that my vision of redemption is too small because I’m too afraid to face hard answers that require greater reconciliation between me and God. It’s like I can’t believe that God could bridge the gap. I want to —need to— believe that God is bigger than my easy answers and half-truths, that grace can pull out the rug.

Or, as Tennyson once wrote: “to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” Not to give up my desire for a better answer, not to give up my desire for a better God. Because maybe that God is still waiting for me to wade through the muck of platitudes to find where—and who— she’s always been.

Today my brother is one of the more generous and gentle people I know. (I, of course, haven’t changed but only because I didn’t need to.) Which is to say that the asterisks next to one’s good attributes can be erased, but only if we have the honesty to put it there to begin with.

I’ve always learned that God gives us grace but I’ve come to think a relationship with God might necessitate us returning the favor. Maybe that’s arrogance, but it comes from the only portrait I can paint with narrow vision and the limited array of pastels that I have.

Which, for the record, is (not-so) exactly how I responded to my brother’s gift of a new lightsaber. With grace. Specifically, I broke it over his head.

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Recycling Faith

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When I was in elementary school, our district did a can drive to promote recycling and cash-in the deposits for funding. Classrooms competed to collect as many aluminum cans as possible. The principal promised an ice cream party for the winning homeroom. I begged my parents to buy soda in bulk (“It’s the responsible thing to do!”). Instead, my father took us dumpster-diving.

We lived at the edge of suburbia in the midst of America’s housing boom; any square-foot of untouched land held potential for profit. At the end of each day, once construction crews were finished, we’d cruise the neighborhood looking for promising worksites. My sister and I scaled the metal walls of dumpsters glancing toward our father waiting by the car like we’d just been granted permission to rob an ice cream truck. Once in we would pick our way around the rubble, tossing any cans over and out where Dad collected them, like they were Easter eggs on a church lawn. Memory exaggerates, but I’m sure we collected several hundred cans with this routine.

A couple of weeks back, I went for a drink with a friend from grad school. We discussed his doctoral work, which was creating something of a faith crisis. “The old stories just don’t work for me anymore,” he told me. His tone was neither desperate nor dismissive; he wasn’t looking for answers or advice. Good thing, because the only response I could muster was swishing my glass while muttering “the drinks here have always been a bit too weak for me.”

It was in middle school that I began attending the weekly youth meetings at our church. We met on Tuesday nights for games and a Bible study. The youth pastor was young and cool (like, wore jeans-to-church cool); several college-aged leaders with frosted tips greeted us as we arrived. For two dollars, we could buy two slices of pizza and a soda.

We talked about Jesus and the Biblical stories. Seven days of creation, belly of a whale, virgin birth, the apocalypse…we got a crash course in fundamentals of the evangelical tradition. More importantly, we learned how to express that tradition (“share the good news”) to others. It was the latter that gave our education a sense of urgency. Faith had to be erected quickly like the new homes of the housing boom, structures built to meet the material demand of the masses which call for answers and concise paradigms. But, like a bursting bubble, not much is needed to reveal the weakness in the frames.

My childhood and the housing boom ended at roughly the same time. Dumpsters and muddy plots of land were replaced by overgrown gaps in the sidewalk. As puberty struck, I grew peach fuzz and skepticism. By the time I graduated college, enough of my long-held assumptions had been scrutinized that I felt like I was coughing in a cloud of smoke but still asking “is something burning?”

All this makes me think of a metal mug my father had in his office which he used for stashing all his loose change. Every six months or so he enlisted us kids to count up the coins into paper rolls— 100 pennies, 40 nickels, 50 dimes, etc. Completed rolls were left on his desk to be deposited in the bank. He called it our college fund. I never saw the deposit slips, but I’d call that “dark humor.” That said, it’s only recently occurred to me that the school district and my father seemed to employ a similar strategy for funding my education: save what you can, it just might add up.

I like to say that my childhood faith has evolved into deconstructed pieces. Practicing this faith is a kind of dumpster diving. Instead of checking boxes next to “I believe” I seek the pieces of my Christian heritage that can be recycled. Some days it’s difficult not to feel as though my tradition takes sincerity and cashes it in for platitudes. The 2016 election, for instance, was like someone gathered all those recyclable cans I’d been collecting and tossed them into the ocean, right above some seals. Baby seals. Just because they could.

I never left the church. Even though the old stories haven’t been working for a long time.  I think I lack the courage. A hiatus here and there may have done me— and my faith— some good. But I’ve never had the bravery of Thomas— searching for answers out in the world while the other disciples remained huddled, terrified, in a locked room.

My class won, by the way. And ice cream during school hours never tasted so good. Which is to say that I do think there’s still–there’s always— hope. Even if it comes from a dumpster, even if only worth a nickel. Because who knows, it just might add up.

Snowy Earthquakes All the Time

6) Snowly Earthquakes All the Time

It’s a clear morning, the kind when the sun unveils delicately, like a baker unwrapping a loaf of fresh, sensuous bread. I’m at a window, overlooking a blanket of new snow upon the woods. I find myself returning to my first memory of snow.

It takes place in a car with my father. It’s our grey minivan— faithful and clunky. We’re parked with the engine on. On the radio is a musical number from Cats. My father is explaining the concept behind Cats, which is entirely lost on me; I was not a budding thespian, nor high.

I place this memory in late autumn. Humid snowflakes fall around us. Their life is brief; they drop like tiny parachutes anchored to rocks and melt upon impact. Tired windshield wipers raise and lower themselves, removing slush in uneven strokes.

The novelist Anthony Doerr notes that there’s more to an individual snowflake than meets the eye: “Take a snow crystal…it looks rigid, frozen in place… (but) on an extremely tiny level, as it freezes it vibrates like crazy, all the billion billion molecules that make it up shaking invisibly.”

Snowflakes are not static; they constantly reshape their own existence in ways we cannot identify, yet always observe. That, Doerr says, is what gives them their shapes: “tiny instabilities.” We see change happen without knowing it. “On the outside, the crystal looks stable, but on the inside, it’s like an earthquake all the time.” The same can be said for memories; tiny vibrations are always there.

The faith of my childhood was simple. I was raised in church and never doubted the reality of Jesus as God any more than I doubted the realness of the bread and (albeit, sacrilegiously cheap) grape juice of communion. The world constructed by my faith tradition was a world of knowns. It was like dancing without pausing to ask where the music came from and if there were any other tunes. Remembering this now feels like watching an autumn snowflake melt in my hand.

The memory of listening to Cats with my father was, at first recollection, static. “It’s just a memory,” was my initial thought, said in the tone of a housewife holding her prize sweater: “oh, this old thing?” But this just a memory is vibrating with questions—little earthquakes of life: why are we parked and what are we waiting for? Why are we listening to Cats? How is it- in my mind- autumn, yet snowing?

Childhood faith (“this old thing?”) is likewise far from simple but is made up of a billion billion questions, even if I didn’t know it then. The snow I saw for the first time that autumn evening had a life of its own; the faith I felt as a child was the same way. Thousands of years ago, my ancestors caught a break in the evolutionary cycle long enough to look up into the night sky and ask “why?” The acceptance of this little earthquake makes doubt feel less like darkness and more like the first step into a snow-laden forest as the sun also stretches its legs.

To such an end, Cats is also a guide. The number titled “Memory” is sung by the character Grizabella, a cat whose days of glamour—faith of a child, if you will— has long since passed. “Let your memory lead you,” she instructs. “Open up, enter in…”

Again, I find myself standing at the edge of the forest. There’s fresh snow; taking a step forward feels exhilarating if slightly foreboding. But a melodic, feline voice invites me to “let the memory live again.”

“Let faith live again.”

Remembrance is a discipline, one to be handled with care. Memories aren’t things to be thrown around nor should they be an object of belittlement or self-deprecation (“what, this old thing?”). But I also think that memory, like faith, is a lot stronger than I give it credit for. While their composition may seem as simple as an autumn snowflake, its nature is that of an ongoing earthquake, tiny enough not to tear it apart but strong enough to make it dynamic and shifting. I have to let these vibrations not startle but fascinate me.

“Let faith live again.”

On mornings with fresh snowfalls, I consider it a discipline to wake early and take those first steps into the woods. Sometimes this is opening a Bible; sometimes it is quietly staring at the snow. Either way, I answer Grizabella’s call; I enter in. And, with my first step, I feel the rumble of an earthquake.