Trusting the false gods

“Is it because there is no God in Israel that you are going off to consult Baal-Zebub?” 2 Kings 1:3

Every morning I have a little routine.  Sam (best of men) brings me a cup of coffee, I groggily sit up and grab my Bible, and I read a portion of Scripture.  This, my friends, is what I like to call a “spiritual discipline”.  Which is a way of saying that sometimes I just do it because it is supposed to be good for me, like squats or eating right.  Which also means that sometimes it is very difficult to harness my thoughts and focus on what God is trying to say to me.  My mind wanders to what I’m going to wear, what I need to get done, what color to paint the mudroom…

I am not a morning person.  But I also know that if I don’t do this little act of obedience/discipline now, I probably won’t get to it today.  And as clichéd as it sounds, starting the day with God always makes it go better.  Even if I am sort of just phoning it in.

My spiritual discipline for time with God this year (I try to start each year fresh), is to read through the Bible in a year. I have done this before – for a while I was doing it every other year.  The problem with so many of these read-through-the-Bible-in-a-year programs (at least for me) is that they are so very regimented as to be overwhelming.  Reading becomes the “have-to” instead of the “get-to”.  There is JUST SO MUCH.  Experts tell you that to read through the Bible in a year “takes only about 15 minutes a day!” (imagine the falsely cheery advertising voice).  Some days it does only take that.  Some days one is reading Leviticus.  Or long lists of geneology.  It may only take 15 minutes but it feels a bit like an eternity.  I know each of those names is important (after all, I believe the Bible to be the inspired, inerrant word of God – which means I don’t really get to pick and choose what is important and what is not.  God did.  Because He is God.)

The program of read-through-the-Bible that I am using this year seems much more doable for some reason.  I’m not sure if it is the way it is structured (a passage of OT, or of NT, it jumps back and forth – you read a book, then move to the other Testament, read a book, etc. and a wisdom chunk – Psalms, Proverbs… a day), or if it is that it allows for days of reflection (every 7th day is a reflection day.  Or in my case, a catch-up day.)  But this time I have more or less stuck with it.  Even through Leviticus.

This has all been a very long preamble to the meat of this post.  Setting the stage for you.

At the beginning of each quiet time, I have gotten in the habit of asking God to let me know what He wants me to get out of the reading for that day.  Currently I have just begun 2 Kings after a refreshing dive into the very short book of Philemon.  I have mixed feelings about Kings.  I love history.  I love knowing stories – narrative is one of the best ways for me to connect to concepts.  So the history in the Kings books should draw me in and fascinate me.  Except I don’t love history about war.  Talk of battles and campaigns is a sure-fire cure for insomnia. I like history about people’s lives – what they did, what motivated them, what did they EAT!  Kings gives a little of that, (let’s face it – Ahab and Jezebel are a fascinating example of a completely dysfunctional marriage and parenting) but there is a lot of who killed who where in what battle that is very hard for a layman like me to keep straight.

I digress.

So this morning followed every other habitual morning.  I woke up, drank some coffee, grabbed my Bible, prayed my “show me” prayer, and got three short verses into 2 Kings and was so struck by the verse at the top of this post, that I had to write.

Background:  Ahaziah has ascended the throne of Israel, the northern of the two kingdoms, following the rather gruesome death of his nasty dad Ahab.  God has already warned Ahab that things were not going to go well for Ahaziah as a consequence of a long family lifestyle of worshipping Baal instead of God.  At some point following his ascension, Ahaziah has taken a tumble through the lattice of his private apartment and injured himself, apparently quite severely because he is unsure if he’s going to make it.

So he calls to his minions and says “Go and consult Baal-Zebub, the god of Ekron, to see if I will recover from this injury.” (2 Kings 1: 2)

Hmm.  A few red flags in the narrative here.  First, Ahaziah is an Israelite.  The God of the Israelites is GOD.  He must have been around when his dad tried to bring rain by calling on Baal.  Didn’t work out so well for him. Four hundred fifty of Baal’s priests were unable to accomplish this task (and ultimately wound up dead as a result of God’s wrath).  Elijah (who really is the central character for a good chunk of this narrative) is a true prophet of the one true God.  He calls on God to show his mighty power, and God delivers in a major way (see 1 Kings 18 for the full story).  Even if Ahaziah was not there, surely the story was passed on.  This isn’t the kind of event that is easily forgotten.

So first red flag.  Forgetting that God is God.

Second red flag.  Ahaziah doesn’t ask to be healed.  He just asks if his time is up.  And back to red flag 1, he doesn’t inquire of God, but of Baal-Zebub. (Side note:  remarkable resemblance in this name to Beelzebub, another name for Satan.  Which I’m sure makes total sense to a Hebrew scholar and would be a very interesting topic to explore.  Just not now.) On their way, the minions meet Elijah who tells them to return to their king and tell him he is going to die.

Third red flag.  This makes Ahaziah, not repentant, not sorrowful, but mad.  He sends several companies of soldiers to fetch Elijah.  Two of these companies are struck down dead by fire of heaven.  The third captain begs for mercy, so Elijah goes with him, delivers the message about death in person to Ahaziah, and Ahaziah dies.

So what is the take away for a middle-aged mom of teenagers several millenia later?  It is so very easy for me to complacently judge Ahaziah from my audience seat in the drama.  Why?  Why wouldn’t he remember the previous actions of God?  Why wouldn’t he ask for healing? Why just ask about the outcome? And for sure, why ask Baal-Zebub?  Is this guy some kind of moron?  And finally, when he hears of his death-sentence, why does he just get angry?

Truthfully, how am I all that different?  I have seen God work amazing wonders in my life, the lives of those around me, and in this 21st century world.  And still when I face even a minor crisis, do I remember first that God is God?  Or do I try to solve it myself? Or hash it out with a friend?  I may not go marching to another “god”, but I’m not always falling to my knees either.  And am I asking for the right thing?  Do I seek healing, or do I just want to know how it is all going to turn out so I can steel myself?  There is an old proverb saying “hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.” Isn’t that what I really do?  And by so doing, am I really hoping?  I so struggle with wanting to micro-manage things, to be in control of a situation, and the truth is, THERE IS NO CONTROL!!!!!  (This is clearly a lesson I have a hard time learning because I am given so many opportunities to practice!)  And when I don’t get what I want, I get angry.  I pout.  Or worse, grow silent.  I maybe don’t send a company of soldiers to kill the messenger, but don’t I do that as effectively myself with my words or lack thereof?  How dare I judge Ahaziah.  Learn from him, would be the wise path.  Put my trust where it really belongs, not in my marriage, or good job, or comfortable house, or dear friends.  I need to be willing to ask the RIGHT person, the one true God, for what I really need, not for what might be an outcome.  I need to be able to repent, to say I’m sorry, and ask for forgiveness instead of just pouting if the answer isn’t what I wanted to hear.  Mostly, I need to remember that God is God.

 

Commencement

graduation-1230325__180I’m looking, weepily (is that a word?  It should be.), at the side of my fridge which is artfully decorated with graduation announcements. They have replaced the crayon artwork of indeterminate objects amid unsigned permission slips and school pictures that once hung there.

It is the season of commencement, of moving on, of starting something new, a time when something begins.  These are not my children – I have a whole year left to prepare for that – but rather the children of my dearest college friends. Most of these friends I made my freshmen year, entering the dorm in barely concealed terror.  I didn’t dare let any of THEM see that I was completely unready for this new adventure.

I first met Katie, who became my roommate for the next three years, bounding up the stairs in a pink polo shirt, plaid shorts, and carrying an armful of some kind of faux fur.  She was beautiful and polished and thoroughly intimidating.  I was sweaty from hauling furniture up three flights of stairs on a humid August day.  I was definitely not beautiful and not polished, and certainly not even remotely intimidating.  I’m pretty sure I didn’t smell so great, either.

But we became friends, even though we were wildly different.  We met others, and decided by our senior year that we would apply for an Honor House.  According to the college website “Honor houses allow third- and fourth-year students to live with peers who are working toward a common academic goal or service/special interest project.”   I have no memory of our academic goal or service project.  I do remember that the one event we organized had to do with time management.  We were late.

The house was named in honor of a former Professor of the college, O.G. Felland, and we titled ourselves the Felland Lovelies.   I think we hoped it would be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

There were twelve of us and one shower.  Yes.  Twelve…  One…  And we all still like each other.

We didn’t know going into that freshman year what awaited us, and that is good. We were full of fresh-faced optimism, cheerful natures, and we owned the world.  By most accounts, we have had happy fulfilling lives, but everyone has some sorrow, and ours started early. Halfway through our senior year, Anne’s parents died suddenly on an icy road in southern Minnesota. This one tragic accident bonded us in a way most college kids don’t have to experience. Along the way, there have been miscarriages, premature babies, babies that didn’t survive, dying parents, a dying friend. When I look at it, we’ve experienced a lot of death in general. But there have been weddings, births, published books, TV appearances, careers, raucous laughter, and a million small precious moments of joy that add up to faces that have aged well and beautifully.

Back to the pictures on my fridge.  These children, young adults really but they LOOK so young!, are commencing that same adventure. They appear much more confident and put together and worldly-wise and sophisticated than I felt at their age.   More like Katie.  But in them I so clearly see their mothers. It is like looking at an updated version of ourselves; Felland House 2.0. They lack the Izod polo shirts and Farrah Hair, but are so familiar and dear that it makes me cry.

I love these children, although I don’t know most of them very well. We’ve spread so far over the country that our paths don’t cross often, and usually sans kids. But I love what is best of their mothers in them. I love Amy’s ready wit, and Sherri’s gentle kindness, and Heidi’s loyalty, and Anne’s positive outlook. I love Mari’s educator’s heart, and Katie’s bohemianism, and Julie’s insightful way of looking at the world. I love Jody’s practicality, and Sara’s compassion, and Jill’s optimism. And I miss every single day Kristi’s wicked sense of humor.

I look at these announcements, so full of hope for the future and so full of the accomplishments of their short pasts, and I see the women who have shaped me and helped me become who I am. I see the faces, unlined and untested, of my sweet friends and I am grateful.

Hello world! Prepare for the ride…

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And so it begins. I have no idea where it will end, but I have felt more and more compelled to write down my thoughts, to find a way to express all the ideas that percolate and whirl around my head like water through coffee grounds. And I love me some good strong coffee!

This blog will be a hodgepodge of interests and ideas, stuff that motivates and intrigues me. “When I fall on my knees” comes from the old communion hymn.

When I fall on my knees, with my face to the rising sun,
Oh Lord! have mercy on me!

Mostly I’m naming it this because for years this name has run through my head. All my best ideas seem to come to me (at least when my kids were little) when I was down on the floor wiping up spilled milk or dog vomit or picking up crayons or stinky socks. I always felt closest to God down in that position too – and it came to me that when I fall on my knees I might as well pray because I’m down here already. So this corner of the web will be musings about Motherhood, Mayhem, and God’s Great Mercy.

A disclaimer up front. I am not a theologian. I’m just a Christian trying to stumble through. I won’t get it right probably half the time, but if I’m thinking it somebody else probably is too and maybe by writing it down I’ll come to some conclusion. Or not. Maybe I’ll make you think too. Or not. I hope to make you laugh or cry. Or not. What I’m trying to do is be obedient to that still small voice that has been nagging me to write for a long time. And the once a year Christmas letter just ain’t cutting it anymore.

So, Web-friend. Hello. Be kind while I get the hang of this thing. Check in once in awhile if you are in the neighborhood. Or if you are bored. I’ll try to be thought-provoking or entertaining. Or both. The time has come, so fasten your seatbelts and prepare for bumpy ride. Or throw your hands up in the air and scream with wild abandon. The ride is about to start.

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