Taste and See

I knew it was a lost cause, but late last month I did it anyway: bought a pound of peaches.

October peaches are not peaches, though they may look and feel and even smell fleetingly of the real thing. The rubbery texture is all wrong, for one thing: real peaches are tender with that least little bit of resistance before giving way under your teeth. The juiciness of a late-October imitation is stingy rather than generous, and as for the taste . . . an echo, maybe. Better than “peach flavored” teabags or candy, but nothing like an actual, tree-ripe, farmers-market peach, pouring out authenticity from the first touch to the last slurpy bite.

The same for raspberries, blueberries, cherries, honeydew and almost any other summertime fruit. Less true for apples and pears, but still. That tang, that bite, that complexity in flavor is impossible to duplicate artificially. For lack of a better term, I call it wildness.

The fruit itself isn’t wild—that’s important. The original peach, outside the original Garden, was probably leathery and more sour than sweet. But the potential was tucked within its wrinkly pit, and it was up to countless husbandmen, creative image-bearers, to graft and plant and variegate the fruit that we know today. There may be many varieties, cling and freestone, but they all share the same essence that belongs to that particular fruit and no other. I’ll bet Mesopotamian gardeners and English orchardmen experienced something of the same joy I feel when biting into the first real peach of summer.

Taste and see that the Lord is good. (Ps. 34:8)

A peach, a watermelon, a zucchini, a sweet potato are all good in their own way. There are many, many ways that the Lord is good. He is good as Creator of all the people around our Thanksgiving table, and all the bounty on that table. He is good as the granter of all my senses. He is good in the sweet, and perhaps especially in the sour. He is good in all the ways he’s unlike me. He is good in pleasure (when we often forget him) and even good in pain (where we can’t help but cry out to him). He is good in ease, and even better in difficulty. He is good in the familiar and the unexpected. He is good in sunlight and starlight, clouds and rain. He is good in too little and too much. Not a tame lion, not a loyal servant; not a vendor or a salesman; not predictable, not domesticated, not safe—

But good, in ways we don’t even know yet.

We can’t always feel that goodness, but sometimes we can taste it, even in something as common, and yet as extraordinary, as a peach.

Mother’s Day: No Laughing Matter

I realized something for the first time when my kids were of an age for sleepovers and birthday parties: dads are funnier than moms.

I might have noticed it in my own house if it wasn’t right under my nose.  My husband was the one to get on the floor and wrestle, start sock fights, and make jokes when it was time to get serious.  That’s not to say I could never be found on the floor with kids crawling all over me, but there’s something different about mommy wrestling as opposed daddy wrestling–a certain lack of abandon and goofiness.  My daughter would come home from a party or church event with stories about how Cheri’s dad had made them laugh while driving them to the skating rink, or how Leslie’s dad had played a stupid trick that backfired.  It was never the moms.  Mothers could certainly be fun (I’d like to think I was. Maybe. Sometimes.), but seldom funny.

Several years ago, the late comedian Jerry Lewis made a controversial statement when asked about his favorite female comics .  His answer: None, because women aren’t funny. That raised a stink among women, many of whom seriously protested that they were funny—which kind of proved his point, in a way.  I would say that women aren’t funny in the same way.  They can be witty (as my mother was), clever, sharp, catty, artless, or charming, but there’s a reason male standup comics far outnumber females, and it doesn’t have much if anything to do with discrimination.  Of those few successful female comedians (as opposed to comic actors), most of them are known for the mordant kind of humor: the biting, even bitter kind.  It’s because women, more than men, have a tragic view of life.  And that’s because of one thing: women have babies.

I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain shall you bring forth children. (Genesis 3:16)

The Pain

Of course, there are mothers . . .

The most common and obvious interpretation of this verse limits the pain to labor and delivery.  But the pain of bearing a child lasts a lifetime, and it’s a particular pain that fathers do not share.  We’re not supposed to mention it these days, but the peculiar pain of motherhood owes to some essential differences between moms and dads:

  • Fatherhood is by choice; motherhood by necessity.
  • Fatherhood is dogmatic; motherhood is organic.
  • Fatherhood is straightforward; motherhood is serpentine and multi-faceted.
  • Fatherhood is tangential; motherhood is central.
  • Fathers are distinct; mothers are intimate.

At the back of a mother’s mind lurks a gigantic fear that something could happen to her baby, even if her baby is 45 years old.  The world yawns wide for our children: busy streets and nefarious strangers, fast cars and bad company, drunk drivers, sexual predators, drug dealers, gang leaders.  A good father will experience these same fears, but probably not until there’s some pretext for them (no what-if speculations for Dad), and not in the same gut-wrenching way if they occur. 

. . . and there are mothers.

Also, from the day our babies are born we have to start letting go of them, and sometimes it’s hard to know when. And how.  It isn’t just a matter of teaching them to crawl, walk, run, and drive; it’s teaching ourselves to stop identifying with them.  They were us; how can they stop being us?  When does their behavior stop being our responsibility?  When do their choices no longer reflect on our child-raising skills?

The Gain

And yet, a great irony: The more a mother clings to her child, the smaller motherhood becomes.  The true joy of mothering increases with every step your child takes away from you.  Conceiving, carrying, bearing, and delivering a baby into this world is the beginning of the pain, but also of the gain: a mature human being with his or her own personality, gifts, and vision.  That’s the goal, and I challenge anyone to name me a better one.  No six-figure income or tabloid-worthy career even comes close.  Motherhood is a double investment in life: the opportunity to grow up again by experiencing its primary discoveries through the eyes of a child and the understanding of a grownup, and the chance to pay it forward with a human being who will make the world a slightly better place. 

If your grown child causes you more grief than joy (and a lot of them do), first check your expectations to make sure you’re not looking for Mini-me: someone who thinks and acts as you do and agrees with 95% of your political and theological positions.  (If you actually ended up with a kid like that, you’re either very exceptional or your son or daughter got swapped for a robot somewhere down the line.)

But say your expectations were reasonable and your child-raising skills were at least adequate.  What went wrong?  Maybe nothing; maybe it’s time to let disappointing children become themselves, and answer for themselves. Trust God with them.  They are still human beings with immortal souls.  Yours will always be the first warm touch they felt, the first loving voice they heard. You pushed them out and raised them up—this is the great human enterprise, and mothers are right in the middle of it.

That’s not funny.  But it’s phenomenal.

The Potential in the Pause

Looking out over the landscape, I see plans derailed like a massive train wreck, cars spilled in all directions. Some are huge: entire industries, like airlines and hotel chains. Others are smaller, but no less huge in their way: the senior trip, the anniversary cruise, the promotion, the book contract. The wholesale wreckage of plans leaves us stunned and confused, disappointed and devastated.

I had my own little plan, and now I’m as confused as anybody. Here’s how it started: twenty-one years ago we moved to five acres in the country because my husband was worried about Y2K (remember that?). I was less worried than he, but we found this place for cheap and bit off a renovation project that was a lot more than we could chew. Once the house was livable, we stayed and stayed.

After a few years, I decided I didn’t like this place. It has its charms, but nothing was very close, the only kind of internet connection we could get was dial-up, and after driving almost an hour to church (one way) once or twice a week, I was fed up. My husband felt differently, and let’s just say we had our disagreements.

Fast-forward about nineteen years, to 2018. We’re getting older—in fact, most people would call us old. My husband has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, which accords with my growing suspicions, and though it takes a while to convince him—and he’s not always convinced—he’s coming around to my conviction that we need to move. Five acres will soon be too much for us to keep up, and we need to be closer to services, doctors, and help from the church.

Fast-forward to 2019. I have a plan. This year I’m going to start clearing out the clutter, selling a few collectibles, lining up carpenters and plumbers to make some minor repairs and enhancements. During the first quarter of 2020 I’ll be repainting, window-washing, and carpet-cleaning so we can stick a For Sale sign in the front yard by May 1.

Jump to February 2020. Problems have come up: the antiquated septic system will need a major overhaul, and that’s never good news. Also, the real estate agent has done a price comparison, and the likely selling price is way off what I expected. I’ll have to do some re-figuring and scale back expectations for what we might be able to buy.

Then comes March: real estate grinds to a standstill and so does everything else.

I used to lie awake at night, or wake up with a sense of dread that I’m stuck here forever. So this is like a nightmare come true, except—

It turns out to be not such a nightmare.

This property is beautiful in the spring. My carpentry plans are on hold, but I rearranged some furniture and my office and bedroom feels almost like a new house. We’ve been doing more together, like clearing brush and cutting the grass. In the evenings we read to each other. We’ve been getting more exercise, enjoying the peppy bird songs and hopeful spring peepers near the pond. I put out some flowers last week. I find myself thinking, if we’re still here another year or two . . .

It will be okay.

I’ve heard that people are getting too comfortable with quarantine; that it’s going to be hard to hop back on the overscheduled merry-go-round. The longer we’re stalled, the slower recovery will be, so the merry-go-round is likely to crawl before it spins. We’ll have to adjust to new speeds for everything, including the real estate market. But for now, for me, it was good to slow down and watch the slow golden sunset over our Kelly-green property line. The time will come to move, and all the old problems will still be there, and we’ll have to deal with them, and it won’t be fun.

But I am not stuck. I am paused, like the peasant girl in Breton’s Song of the Lark (my cover picture). In music, the pauses matter as much as the notes; potential hovers within, like the Spirit of the Lord hovering over the waters (Gen. 1:2).  

Besides, on the other side of all this might be someone who’s looking for a quiet place in the country.

Divesting

“Divest, transitive verb: 1) To strip, as of clothes. 2a) To deprive, as of rights or property; b) to be free of. 3) To sell off or otherwise dispose of.”

The word leans both positive and negative.  To strip, or to deprive: that’s harsh.  To be free of—oh joy!

If we’re blessed enough to live into old age, it’s time to strip.  And be free.

There’s a book called Material World: a Global Family Portrait.  The author/photographer went around the

Getting by in Tokyo

world persuading families to empty their houses of all durable goods: appliances, dishes, books, clothing, furniture.  The Ukita family stack their possessions as compactly as their tidy apartment along the sidewalk in front of their building.  The Natromos of Mali—nine kids and three adults—smile from their rooftop surrounded by earthenware pots and utensils.  Most of their clothes are on their backs.  In northern California, the property of Regan Ronayune and Craig Cavin and their two kids sprawls across their suburban lawn: tools, toys, and toddler ware, necessities and luxuries tumbled together.

Every American house is like a little American frontier: empty space to be filled.*  We tend to fill up the space we have, and then some—observe the boom in separate storage units.

What matters in Iceland

Periodic moves help to clear away some of the underbrush.  My husband and I moved 23 times in our first 25 years.  For our early moves we got all our stuff in a pickup truck and a VW bug.  For our last move, we required one-third of a cross-country Bekins trailer.  At every stop on the way to our current location we filled up more space.

As for our current location, we’ve been here twenty years—long enough for the tide of our lives to turn.  What that means is, it’s time to divest.

Reason one:  Stuff persists.  As the years pass, a kind of stratus-layer buildup takes place.  The file cabinets and understair storage areas and those closet shelves that aren’t easy to reach harden like anonymous stone.  What’s in there?  I don’t even know anymore.  Maybe detritus from my mother’s estate, or mother-in-law’s, squirreled away before I could figure out what to do with it.  Like bad cholesterol in the bloodstream it’s not going away and will make itself known at some inconvenient time.

Reason Two: My kids don’t want our stuff.  The inconvenient time may be when I croak, or take a serious turn for the worse, like a debilitating stroke.  That’s when my children, who now have lives and families of their own, get the unwelcome responsibility of divestment dropped in their laps.  In the old days, family possessions were handed down through two or three generations.  Daughters may actually have wanted a grandmother’s silver, but now—who uses silver? or much less, china?  Not only is cheap merchandise readily available, but tastes have broadened.  Don’t assume your kids want your four-poster or steamer trunk.  Ask if they do.  If the response is less than enthusiastic, dump it.  Let them miss you for your thoughtfulness and personality, not for the job you saddled them with.

Reason Three:  The direction is toward less, not more.  Tiny houses may be a short-lived fad (easier to

Content in Mali

admire than to actually live in), but the culture is scaling down, for reasons not entirely good.  (It’s fine to want to get by with less stuff; not so fine to get by with fewer babies).  For now, though, that’s the trend: digital vs. material, disposable vs. durable, temporary vs. permanent.

Reason Four: Freedom.  Old age is the time to go deep rather than wide.  To spend down portfolios and build relationships.  To men what’s broken and appreciate what isn’t.  To number the days and spend them wisely.  Possessions become a burden the minute you no longer need them, or when your arthritic hands can’t wrangle the scissors or your fumbling brain can’t remember how to use the tools.  I’m not that old yet, but it’s time to start loosening my grip, singer by finger.  Soon enough I’ll have to let go.

Divest.  Do it while you’re still able.  Then enjoy your freedom.

 

*Meaning no disrespect to Native Americans; I know they were here first.  But they didn’t fill up the place.

Thanks to Sarah

Sarah Josepha Hale—who remembers her?  Actually, we all do, indirectly, for two reasons.  One is our annual Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of November.  The second I’ll get to later.

Even without Thanksgiving, she left her mark on American history, largely by having the sense to look around her, take stock of what she had, and be grateful for it.  In time she gave hundreds of American women reason to be grateful too.

A girl growing up in the early days of the 19th century didn’t have too many options, even in forward-looking, erudite New England.  A smattering of education, if she was lucky.  A considerate husband, if luckier still.  Healthy children who lived past their infancy—jackpot.  Though Sarah later wrote little about her father, she credited her mother with a strong mind and her Dartmouth-educated older brother with sharing some of his instruction.  The rest of her education was the Bible and classical English authors, the base from which she started her own school for ladies in Newport, New Hampshire.  A smattering of education? Check.

By all accounts, she scored well in the considerate husband department too.  David Hale, a moderately successful lawyer, shared books with her and encouraged her to write for the local paper.  In between babies, of course.  So she was doing well with intellectual stimulation, spouse, and progeny—until her husband suddenly died, “as with a stroke,” mere days before the birth of their fifth child.

A widow’s options in 1822 were even narrower than a young girl’s.  But if Sarah Hale had no funds she did have connections, and after a failed business or two she accepted the offer of an Episcopal clergyman to help start a women’s journal.  The Ladies’ Magazine, published in Boston, had its ups and downs, but caught the attention Louis A. Godey, a Philadelphia publisher who was looking to mine the untapped reserves of the women’s market.  He asked Mrs. Hale to come on board for a new venture, to be titled Godey’s Lady’s Book and American Ladies’ Magazine.  The cumbersome second phrase was soon dropped, and Godey’s Lady’s Book became the voice of American women for the next fifty years.

Sarah had two conditions: first, rather than borrow (or steal) material from other journals, especially overseas, she wanted to develop the talents of American writers by publishing and paying them well.  Second, she didn’t like fripperies or “high fashion”; her journal should be as high-minded as the editor.  Mr. Godey was fine with paying extra for good writing, but his business sense checked her puritan tendencies.  Women were interested in fashion, had always been interested in fashion, and always would be interested in fashion.  Hence, the painstakingly hand-colored “fashion plates” that decorated each number of Godey’s.  Sarah may have fumed, but got in her own licks by fulminating against tight corsets and encouraging women to pursue fresh air and exercise.

As the first successful women’s magazine ever, Godey’s Ladies’ Book used its popularity to do good while doing well—for instance, offering the first retail shopping service.  Every issue featured items women could purchase to be delivered directly to them, prefiguring the mail-order catalogue, which in turn prefigured Amazon.com.  While making money for the business, Sarah Hale used her influence to lobby for educational opportunities for women, including college, business schools, and normal schools (for training teachers).

She was very canny in the way she went about it, though: rather than castigating men for holding the fair sex back, she played to their interests: wouldn’t a husband come to appreciate a wife informed enough to share his business concerns?  Don’t all fathers want their children to benefit from an educated mother? And if a woman chooses not to marry, it’s silly to think she will squeeze men out of their chosen professions.  Elizabeth Blackwell, the first American woman to achieve a medical degree, owed much of her support to Sarah Hale, as did the Female Medical School of Philadelphia and the Ladies’ Medical Missionary Society.

She always said—and sincerely believed—that a woman’s chief place was in the home, but she saw that place as a noble calling rather than thankless drudgery.  She was, it’s fair to say, the Oprah of her day.  Who can tell how many women felt lifted up and encouraged by the earnest editor of their favorite magazine?

That’s probably Sarah Hale’s greatest legacy, in spite of her many good works and institutions she helped establish.  Still, she’s best known for is promoting Thanksgiving as a national holiday.  She persisted through three decades and five presidents until Abraham Lincoln, who may have had fewer reasons to feel thankful than most, wrote out a proclamation establishing the day we’ve celebrated in November ever since.

Two picture books about Sarah Hale have been published in the last decade: Sarah Gives Thanks, by Mike Allegra, and Thank You, Sarah by Laurie Halse Anderson.  The titles might give you a hint of the approach: the first presents a hard-working, determined woman growing old gracefully surrounded by her family.  The second makes Sarah’s crusading spirit the focus: a feminist icon charging the bulwarks of masculine privilege.  Just a guess, but I think the former description is more likely.  Sarah Hale’s activism, if that’s the word, was quiet, firm, and tenacious.  She worked with what she had and probably accomplished more actual good for women than other feminist firebrands.

Oh, and her other legacy: “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

Should I Expect Thanks?

UPDATE: Hey, Science backs me up! “You Should Actually Send That Thank-You Note You’ve Been Meaning to Write.”

Here’s what I’m seeing more and more, even among young, solid, sound Christian young people (and young people edging toward middle-age): Christmas is coming, or a birthday, or graduation.  I sound them out on what they might like, or ask someone who should know.  I research gifts and plot how to pay for them.  I might even make something.  I scrape together the money, buy the gift, wrap it, send it.  And I get no word in reply.

Sometimes I ask, did you get the present I sent?  Sometimes packages get lost, or emails bearing gift cards get buried.  Usually the answer is, Oh yeah!  Sorry, it slipped my mind.  Thanks!

Sure; everybody forgets—I have forgotten to write that note or make that call myself, so I shouldn’t be pointing fingers.  But I see my carelessness as a fault, whereas I’m not sure everybody does.

My question is, when something occupies my mind for a significant period, and takes an investment in time and money and (sometimes) presentation—doesn’t that deserve a piece of the recipient’s mind, a piece that doesn’t slip?  Do I deserve thanks?

My Calvinist daemon shakes its head no; dangerous territory, to think I deserve anything.  My natural self urges yes.  Maybe there’s a compromise: I don’t deserve thanks.  But . . .

Am I owed it?  Like I would be owed a paycheck for contracted work?  But gift-giving isn’t contracted; just the opposite.  It’s to supposed to be without obligation.

Do I need it?  Maybe closer to the truth, but not quite true.  I would certainly like to know if the gift arrived, that it didn’t get lost in the mad rush to unwrap presents and that it was (somewhat? a little?) appreciated.

Should I expect it?  Well . . . maybe, but expecting anything still sounds like strings attached: I do this for you, you’d better do something in return, even if it’s just a simple “thank you.” Not that we’re playing tit for tat, and don’t you hate it when people feel like they have give you something of equal value whenever you do anything for them?  So expectation doesn’t quite fit either.

Could it be that a gift isn’t complete unless it’s received and acknowledged?

Maybe it’s like this: a gift isn’t complete unless it’s received and acknowledged.  It’s still a gift, because of the giver, but something needs to come back to the giver for the circle to be closed.  Otherwise all the questions are just hanging out there: Did you get it? Do you like it? Can you use it?  A work of art is unfulfilled without an audience, an act of mercy must be received—even fixing a drain under the sink is pointless unless the sink is promptly used with gratitude (and the plumber is paid).

“It’s the thought that counts” works both ways.

Yes, we get busy and forgetful.  But I wonder if thank-yous are even a thing for younger people—do they want thanks when they give?  Or do their lives move too fast for either giving or receiving? If so, their lives move too fast, period.

Our Happiness

Ya know what I was thinking.  No child should have to choose between parents.  No child should have 2  parents that split up and hate each other and don’t communicate properly.  No child should go a year without seeing the other parent.  No child should think it’s their fault their parents split up.  No child should see their parents suffering.  No child needs to deal with adult problems.

But lots of children do.  Sometimes it’s unavoidable; usually not.  Usually it’s unhappiness on one side or the other, a gnawing dissatisfaction fed by daily irritation until it seems unbearable.  So unbearable it can no longer be borne.

I know a young woman who recently decided it couldn’t be borne, after living with a man for over ten years and creating two children with him.  To my knowledge, the three “A’s”–addiction, abuse, and adultery–were not a factor.  I’m going to be very blunt: this mother valued her own happiness over her children’s and that is self-deception in the worst way.

I know that sounds harsh, and is harsh, but by every objective measure it’s true.  Her kids are too young to express themselves, but the young lady I quote above, age 14, couldn’t have said it any better.  She speaks for the little ones who suddenly have no home, only temporary residences first with Mommy, next week with Daddy.  She speaks for those who perpetually come second, no matter what Mom or Dad says.  She speaks for those who bear the burden of their parents’ unhappiness: No child needs to deal with adult problems.

Back in the early days of the women’s movement, when mothers who walked out on their families received magazine cover stories, the reasoning went like this: If I’m unhappy, won’t my kids be, too?  They’re better off with a mother who knows who she is, who follows her dreams.  When I’m fulfilled, they will benefit.

We had it backwards, though.  When a woman becomes a mother, her happiness is linked to her children’s, not the other way around.  They don’t need our happiness—they need our stability, our reliability, our attention, our provision, all of which a single parent has to struggle to provide.  I know it’s not impossible to raise children alone, but it’s very, very difficult.  And two single parents who are bitter or resentful toward each other make it that much more difficult.  Sometimes a divorce is truly amicable but usually it just pretends to be—or why seek a divorce in the first place?  And then the pretense slips.

All of this makes the children unhappy.  Can we blame them? By the time a mother realizes that she’s traded her happiness for theirs, it’s too late.  Their resentment, sullenness, lack of direction and focus afflict her deeply.  Add on the bills, the endless chores and details falling to her alone, the little problems she never has time to deal with until they’re big problems, and (too often) the failure to establish a stable relationship with someone else—and that was clearly a bad trade.

It might get better.  The kids might be able to work through their trauma, find something or someone to ground themselves, and launch productive lives.  But the odds are against it, because we put them at a great disadvantage when they’re too young to understand why.  All for “happiness.”  Why can’t we learn?

Why Sex?

Several years ago, after a flurry of news about some outrage I can’t even remember, my best friend asked in frustration, “Why do we even have to have sex?”

One obvious reason: without a drive that powerful and all-consuming, the human species would have died out a long time ago.  Babies are fun and rewarding but they’re also a burden and a commitment—not just for the cute years, the learning years, the carpool years, and the teen years, but for the rest of a parent’s life.  Every child, no matter how delightful, introduces a huge element of risk and worry.  We don’t volunteer for complications without a powerful motivation.  That’s one reason why birth rates always go down in developed countries, and it’s one answer to the “Why sex?” question.

Still, I understand my friend’s vexation.  I’ve felt it myself.  Loaded guns are beneficial when used for self-defense or food procurement, but they are too easily misused.  Why did God make this—the equivalent of a loaded gun—the only means for procreation?  And then why did he place it in the hands of beings who were bound to misuse it, to devastating effect?

It must be about more than us.  everything he does also reveals something about him.

Sex must be about more than us.  Everything God does also reveals something about him.

A man sees a woman—he burns for her.  It may be sheer lust: a desire to possess.  But somewhere in that tangle of impulse and emotion is also (I believe) a desire for surrender.  Sex is an abandonment of self, if only for a second.  A sadist may get a thrill out of exercising control over another human being, but for the ultimate thrill he (or she) has to let go.  Even in casual hookups or manipulative relationships there’s some degree of giving, of providing what the other person wants in order to get what you want.

A sexually-healthy marriage is mutual surrender, deepening into love so rich it produces fruit.  Each retains its own but in the process becomes better.  Neither partner gives up individuality, but in community becomes a better individual.  Even, in community, produces more individuals to grow up and figure out who they are and fall in love with a member of the opposite sex and grow the family.  That’s how it’s supposed to work, at its best.  Personal desire—even lust—initiating a vast web of mutual interdependence.

On a spiritual level, God is called our Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named (Eph. 3:15).  Note—God is not the father of each individual, but the Father of family.  Obviously not biological family, or not that alone (heavenly families, as little as we know of them, aren’t biological).  But the One God, who exists in three persons, models a biological family on a spiritual level.  Among those three persons is mutual (ecstatic?) surrender, taking and giving, creating within its great heart a dynamic that produces a universe.

Creation imitates its creator: atoms surrender elections to form molecules; planets submit to gravity to form solar systems.  Every force is dependent on or bound to another force.  There are no rugged individuals in nature.

Autonomy in sex turns pathological, leading to a form of insanity where the drive consumes the driver.

In fact, true autonomy is pathological.  Everybody knows that, though we still like to pretend our souls are ours alone.  That’s how sex goes awry: the essential submission and surrender are crammed into one second instead of spread out in a whole-life commitment.  The rest is Me Alone.  Autonomy in sex turns pathological, leading o a form of insanity where the drive consumes the driver.  And creates countless victims.  As with all human excess, it can’t last long.  We’ll be forced back into mutual dependence somehow because there’s no thwarting nature, or the God who made it.

Bible Challenge, Week 6: The Promise – Isaac

What’s there to think about Isaac?  A promised child, a near-victim, a weak husband, a gullible father . . . meh.  He fades into the crack between Abraham and Jacob. and we see very little of his actions, even less of his inward thoughts.  The defining moment of his life may well have been the instant when, somewhere around 15 years old, he lay bound on a stone altar gazing up at a knife held by his own father.  Trustingly? Fearfully? Incredulously?  Maybe all those things at once, and the experience could have scarred him for life.  But now he enjoys an eternal existence as one-third of the patriarchal triumvirate, the “Abraham-Isaac-and-Jacob that the God of Israel would identify Himself by.

It turned out okay for him.  However colorless he appears, being a vital link in the chain of God’s covenant blessing is no small thing.

 

Click here for the pdf download:

Bible Challenge, Week 6: The Promise – Isaac

(This is a continuation of a series of posts about the “whole story” of the Bible.  I plan to run one every week, on Tuesdays, with a printable PDF.  The printable includes a brief 2-3 paragraph introduction, Bible passages to read, a key verse, 5-7 thought/discussion questions, and 2-3 activities for the kids.  Here’s the Overview of the entire Bible series.)

Previous: Week 5: The Promise – Abraham

Next: Week 6: The Promise – Jacob

Bible Challenge, Week Five: The Promise – Abraham

We like to say God has a sense of humor.  (Though I suspect it’s not like ours.)  He may also have a sense of irony, or why would a man who was childless until the age of 90 come to be known as “Father” Abraham?  But then, what seems ironic to us might just be a splendid dichotomy for him.  He loves shaking up the system: the younger supplants the older, the weak overcome the mighty, the last shall be first, and the meek (eventually) inherit the earth.  Likewise, a old man (75 when we meet him) becomes a major point person in our Hero’s quest to resolve the central conflict of the Bible.

Our Hero, remember, is God himself.  We’ve talked about our problem: rebellion, judgment, and separation.  His main problem is us: how to be reconciled to people he loves even though they reject him.  The answer will begin with one person; and from one person, one family; and from one family, one nation; and through one nation . . . but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

So here’s Abraham, great father and great receiver of a foundational covenant.  And here’s the download:

Bible Challenge, Week Five: The Promise – Abraham

(This is a continuation of a series of posts about the “whole story” of the Bible.  I plan to run one every week, on Tuesdays, with a printable PDF.  The printable includes a brief 2-3 paragraph introduction, Bible passages to read, a key verse, 5-7 thought/discussion questions, and 2-3 activities for the kids.  Here’s the Overview of the entire Bible series.)

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Next: Week Six: The Promise – Isaac