Human Sacrifice & "Feelings"

Some days, you can manage to do nothing of seeming significance, and still feel that there is something memorable taking place—that the day is asserting itself as a memory worthy of recall. That’s how my day began yesterday. I hadn’t spent much time with Eric all week because of classes, but Fridays are our day off. And usually we have a plan for the day, but this morning unraveled without much discussion.

We ended up with coffee in our hands, pumpkin bread on our plates, and Bibles and journals on our laps. It felt so good to agree.

As I picked through a few of the things I planned to read for the day, I grew a bit weary. Ever since the writing I did about the flood and regret, I’ve felt spiritually exhausted and the Bible has not let me off the hook. From the flood, to Sodom and Gomorrah, and through various stories about women and their children and jealousy and downright wickedness, I was feeling suffocated by the text. I could see that today would be no exception.

I committed my eyes to the bold words in front of me: “The Sacrifice of Isaac.”

It makes me sick to think of Isaac, walking up the hill alone with his father Abraham, not knowing what was to come. He inventories the things they have carried, and then asks his father where the lamb is for the burnt offering. Abraham responds, “God will provide for himself the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.” I hate being the knowing audience, and I cringe at his reply, for Isaac seems sweet and trusting, a child with little ambition beyond obtaining the approval of his father. Not too many sentences later, Isaac is tied up on a stack of wood with his father holding a knife over his body, prepared to move forward with the sacrifice—until the Lord intervenes: Do not do anything to him. A ram appears, caught in the bushes by its horns. So, father and son prepare the sacrifice of the ram, instead.

I push everything off of my lap. I close my eyes. I breathe slowly. I am well aware that God intervened. But why was He there in the first place? So involved?

Silence.

Pick up the pen, Amber. Write it down.

But by the time I had picked up my pen, something new was surfacing. I was starting to wonder about Abraham. He must have felt like Jesus did on the night before the crucifixion, when He cried out in desperation, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” He asked God to spare His life. Except. God did not take the cup from Jesus. There was no divine intervention. There was no ram in the bushes that could be sacrificed instead. God, the Father, placed His son on the offering table, and Jesus was sacrificed.

I close my journal, and I look up at Eric, waiting for a moment when I might be able to interrupt because I need him to listen and to walk through this with me. “Eric, what if the story about Abraham and his son Isaac is supposed to be upsetting to us? I’ve heard so many Christians explain the story away with comments about how we should be more like Abraham, willing to sacrifice anything for the Lord, but this does nothing to appease the discomfort I have in knowing that God was so actively involved in the near murder of Isaac, by his own father! And I know that it is ‘unreasonable’, perhaps even defiant, for the creation to question the righteousness of the Creator, and all of that, but can we just admit that this story is screwed up?! And Eric, one more thing, and this is what I am really starting to wonder…

What if the weight in my heart is a glimpse into the heart of God, and how He must have felt when we asked Him—by our actions on this planet—to sacrifice His one and only son on our behalf. Because God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, and we hate Him for it, but by our sins and by our hands, we sacrificed God’s one and only son, and our hypocrisy blinds us— we fail to see that how we feel about Isaac is only a fraction of how God must have felt about Jesus, and about Isaac for that matter. We miss the opportunity to assume His posture, and know His heart.”

We agreed that it was possible. It was quiet, again. I let these thoughts weigh on me.

By the afternoon, we were standing in the bookstore. I’d been waiting for the chance to get my hands on One Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans. By the evening, I was five chapters in. But one chapter stood out. Evans was reading about human sacrifice in the Bible as well—a different story, and one that I know is coming up in my reading plan. She was recapping the various interpretations of the scholars, and expressing her disappointment with how these explanations failed to deal wholly with the tension one faces when reading the story. I was twitching with joy at the feeling of being understood, and at the irony of this perfect timing—that I would be reading this book, these words, on this day.

Evans writes, “These are useful insights, I suppose, but sometimes I wish these apologists wouldn’t be in such a hurry to explain these troubling texts away, that they would allow themselves to be bothered by them now and then.”

I wonder, if we took Evans’ advice, if God would start to show up in ways like He did for me yesterday morning. What if we took the sincerity of our raw emotions and allowed that to be the point for revelation, the place for meeting Him, the chance to get a glimpse of who He really is. I wonder if it breaks God’s heart, even, to see us reading these scriptures and stories, refusing to feel out of fear that He might become angry, or worse, that He might not reconcile our reactions to Him. That He might not explain Himself.

What if, instead, to feel as we read—angry and confused and frustrated and bothered—is exactly what it takes to know Him more?

Christ Defiled

One day, a man named Andre Serrano held a perfectly white figurine of the crucified Christ in his hands. He twirled it with his fingers, careful not to smudge the cleanliness and purity of the object—wondering if any such caution was necessary. He squinted his eyes and asked himself: what was this man?

He paused. He lifted it up. A beam of sunlight hit the face of Jesus, causing it to glow yellow and orange. And Serrano knew what he must do. He grabbed a jar, peed in it, and placed the Christ within. He took a photograph. He named it Immersion, or “Piss Christ," and it quickly became an art world sensation.

Or maybe that’s not the story at all. But whatever happened, it amounted to this (and a lot of political and social tension).

I still remember the first day that I saw it. I was taking a course called "Blue Smoke and Mirrors" and we were focusing on Ways of Seeing, looking at different pieces of art and discussing their impact. This one was introduced to us as a "controversial piece”. Some smirked. Some cringed. I paused and admired it—the amber hues that illuminated the hazy Christ, His head bowed, and His right hand in such focus, emphasizing the nail that pinned it there. It’s not that I am indifferent to the defilement of Christ, or the degrading of His image. But something heavier rested on my heart as I allowed myself to truly see what I was looking at.

Perhaps the one who has defiled Christ is not the artist. Sometimes art is not intended to put forth a new idea; sometimes art is intended, merely, to capture and to confront the truth of what already is. Perhaps we, Christians, have defiled the very Christ we claim to know and love. Perhaps we have made Him undesirable to those He loves, and those He seeks.

Immersion reminds me of hypocrisy. I think of it, and pause. I cannot take offense. He has asked me, simply, to be a reflection of His love: to give it freely and without restraint. And the only way to lift Christ from Serrano’s jar, is to do so.  

Empty

I don't feel sad, or torn, or burdened, or heavy. Just empty. I've poured out all that I have in only three days, and I'm already tired of driving in the dark of morning, as I leave for work, and the dark of night, as I come back home. Friday, be soon. 

I keep thinking that it would be fine if I just called it a night, and that one day off from writing for the blog wouldn't harm anything at all, and that the four minutes remaining of my computer battery should be a sign to call it a rest. But these are the moments when I need Him the most. When I can lean into Him, and find whatever it is that I need for the day, and be reminded that He never fails me. And be reminded that it's okay to fail sometimes too.

Like when I don't have anything eloquent to say. 

I had to stay awake long enough, though, to say thank you for this day. Thank you for being the "God who sees" and teaching me to see more clearly, too. I am awed by the reality that you spend time with me. How you never leave my side throughout the day. How I have nothing to fear because of you, and how you push me to become someone better than I could ever be on my own. Thank you for this life, and for this day.

Your Light

It's been a long day, but I don't want to shut my eyes for sleep until I write these things down. I don't want the memory of these things to slip away to some place where I cannot find them later. Before leaving the house this morning, I read these words: let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven. 

I know that you are special, Father. I think of this scripture, and I am filled with humility at the thought of your essence, your guiding light, residing in me. As I close my eyes and try to accept what the words mean, I can see that a bright, white light fades away, and that flashes of color begin to pulsate through me instead. It reminds me of what I felt when I read the pages near the back of your book. I used to think you were the most narrow God. Even in color. Even in shape. But your light is like the cosmic bursts that we chase down with our telescopes and satellites in the black of night. Your light is moving, changing, beaming, sparkling, burning, reaching, and much too worthy for me.

Thank you for the pictures you give. The place in my head where you paint things that I'll never be able to put on a page. For intimacy.

Tower Building

After spending two days asking God why He decided to put a halt to the tower building project in Babel, I’m still in conversation with Him. I’m waiting to learn what He meant when He said, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them” (Genesis 11:6). Nothing? The consequence of the Tower of Babel is unfortunate, considering that, even within the bounds of a single language, it seems impossible to make sense these days. For now, though, I’m okay with waiting for answers—with leaving some mysteries unsolved and moving forward.   

Mainly because there is a different part of the story that pulled me in: “Then they said, ‘Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves’” (Genesis 11:4).

I keep thinking about what these words should mean to a person who has been spending her time exposing her private moments with God, writing in an online journal, stacking up the bricks, forming a tower of sorts—or a name for herself? What is my motivation anyways? As I lay brick upon brick, it’s tempting to just keep stacking them up in my mind and to dream of how high they could go. It’s tempting to want the attention for myself. Even if you begin a project with right intentions, there is a fine line that eventually appears between giving the glory to God and keeping it for yourself. Despite the temptations, I try to find myself up against the line, with my feet fully planted on the side where I can remain unseen.

This is why I hesitated in December when I wanted so badly to share the musical project that Eric had worked on all year. Every time I typed up the announcement, I felt I was pushing him over the line, out of the shadow.

Elevating him like an ancient statue.

But I listened to the whole record today, and I can't wait any longer to share it. I overlooked the fact that when Eric was praying about the project, he heard God assuring him that this would be something they would create together. Togetherness is much sweeter than any amount of glory received on the other side of the fine line. 

Follow the link for more information about "Carry Your Name"-
released by A Jesus Church, December 2013:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/carry-your-name/id777133884

As I continue to write this blog, I pray that I will have the strength to keep tower building to a minimum, and the opportunity to be with God—perhaps even to write with Him, as He invited Eric to do this past year.  

Naked Noah

The new quarter begins tomorrow, so I’ve been spending my day typing out last minute ideas, dreaming about first-day-of-class scenarios, tidying up the house, running laundry, and giving Harvard extra snuggles with hopes they will sustain him for the following weeks apart. It’s a bittersweet day.

And in terms of my reading, I stayed awake until 2 am last night, mixing it in with other tasks :)

After the flood, God makes His promise in the form of the rainbow, and then Noah drinks too much wine. He falls asleep naked, and one of his sons discovers him, and shames him; the other two sons walk in backwards to cover their father. It’s a bit odd that this is the first human story since Noah’s family has reached dry land again, but when I look closer, I see parallels to Adam and Eve that might be significant, or maybe I've lost it completely:

• Eve ate the fruit, and Noah drank the wine—despite the flood, there is still sin, even among the most “righteous”.
• Adam and Eve were ashamed of their nakedness, and Noah was too—despite the flood, humans still face the shame of their sin.
• But here comes the subtle difference. In the garden, God created coverings for man and woman; after the flood, Noah’s sons were the ones who covered him.

Is this the first time in the Biblical narrative when mankind has acted in a manner that so clearly echoes the actions of God? Is this the beginning of our journey to become more like Him?

There is a clear split between the son who acted dishonorably towards his father, and the two sons who gave him respect, knowing that Noah had sinned. And I can see now that the actions of these two sons hold more value than just serving to model parental respect. These sons had compassion for their father, and so they covered his shame just as God would have done. At some point along the way, maybe this point, maybe earlier, God’s invitation was accepted, and mankind joined Him in the work of healing and caring for His children. I can hear the voice of God each day—urging me to reach out my heart and my hands to His children, with compassion, no matter the role they have played in their own shame. Reminding me of how cruel it is to say, you made your own bed. Reminding me to forgive my friends and my enemies, and to cover them. Reminding me that sometimes I am the one who is naked and vulnerable and ashamed, in want of compassion. 

In my previous attempts at “finishing” the Bible, I’ve always been annoyed by this story of Noah’s sons. Are you kidding? Why does this matter? Why did the son who saw his naked father become the slave to his other brothers? Sure, he took nudity lightly and dishonored his dad a bit, but come on, is this really the lesson that I’m supposed to learn? How can I keep reading this book and pretend that I like it? I can have such a bad attitude about reading the Bible sometimes, and still, God listens to me rant, waits, leans in, pulls back the veil from my eyes, opens His heart, and starts pointing things out.

I feel lucky to be a part of this story. Tomorrow I will revel in the chances to be compassionate—as God is compassionate.

Why Regret?

(Genesis 6:7) “So the Lord said, ‘I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.” 

To read that God, the Father, “regretted” is one of the most painful moments in the reading of the scriptures. It is a violently, troubling idea. It is an opportunity to reject Him or to love Him more. I stirred in this tension all day yesterday. I prayed, skeptically.

Regretting God, how could you possibly be all knowing? Flooding God, how could you possibly be good? But other, quite opposite, questions arose in me too. Regretting God, why continue with us at all? Why spare even one of us? Flooding God, why didn’t you make the water to put an end to us entirely? Why make us in the first place? A part of me can understand completely why God would regret making us, and that part of me doesn’t understand why a regretting God wouldn’t just deal with the regret entirely—wouldn’t just wipe us out.

I find myself agreeing with Robin William’s character in Patch Adams sometimes: “Maybe you should have had just a few more brainstorming sessions prior to creation. You rested on the seventh day, maybe you should have spent that day on compassion.” Maybe you should have instilled in us, without room for error, the ability to resist the fruit. The avoidance of the fall.

I don’t deal well with regret. I am human, and humans are exceptionally versed in avoiding and rejecting regret. Regret nothing—you only live once! Yet, I think we are bit turned around on this matter. Jesus came to clear us of the burden of guilt, but regret is a human emotion that is reflective and compassionate—an emotion that leads us to take ownership for our actions and to make peace with our past. I can imagine that God, for all that He is, would look upon creation and feel tremendously saddened by all that we have become, and that He would regret how His own hand crafted us into being. In fact, when I really think about this, I can’t imagine Him any other way. For if He is good, He feels to the fullest extent. In Genesis, God regretted making us because He felt responsible for what had become of us, because He loved us; in the flood, perhaps He suffered more than any living creature that was consumed by the waves of His wrath.

I think again about the line from Patch Adams and my own questions, and I realize that God did instill in us compassion and the ability to resist the fall. He gave us all of this when He gave us Himself. But He also gave us freedom—because in order to love, truly, we must be free to give it. In our freedom, we are the ones who committed the regrettable act. We traded everything for the only thing He asked us not to take.

To love, we must be free. Regrettably, awfully, beautifully free.

As I wrote earlier, regret leads us to take ownership and to make peace with our past. Perhaps, therefore, the regret of God in Genesis was necessary to set into motion His great plan; perhaps this was the moment when the entire story flashed before Him. He would suffer as He flooded His creation, He would spare Noah, and all of creation would multiply again through the Ark. Then, in time, He would give His most precious of gifts to us—He would give Jesus. And through Him, every bit of regret would be taken away. Something feels right about that. We’ve always wanted to be free from regret, but catchy sayings and quotes won’t do the trick. The hard part to fathom is that we should have been the ones to feel the pain of regret, to feel the weight of our sin, and yet God took this upon Himself.

Regret is a painful awareness of something that we wish were not so, but perhaps must be. I can’t pretend to imagine what the alternative would have been for God—how things would have been if He had not made us at all. Ultimately, I recognize that we humans are not a mistake. If we were, He would not have given us Himself. He would not have given Noah the Ark. He would not have given us Jesus. He would not have sent His Spirit.

I’m not a scholar. I haven’t done much research. I am sure that I still have so much to learn about the story of the flood and the magnitude of God’s decisions and emotions, but tomorrow, I doubt I’ll regret these hours I’ve spent talking with Him about all of this. Don’t take my word for any of it; take it up with God Himself.

On Fridays

On the seventh day of creation, God rested; on Fridays, the Lemiere family rests, too. We've been doing this since we moved to Vancouver at the end of September last year (that would be 2013). At first, we felt guilty to be resting when there was so much we thought we should be doing, and it was a challenge to decide what to do with our time when we weren't scrambling to squeeze in a bit of work here and there. Now it's starting to feel normal: breakfast, coffee, reading, long walks, games, antiques, groceries, movies, and time with friends. This day changes my entire week. I can honestly feel my heart resting in the calm of the storm, learning how to be in the moment. Tomorrow, I'll be finishing up my class prep for the frenzy of a quarter that I have ahead of me, and I'll write another blog too. Until then, make a break everyone.

Don't let his face fool you. Eric loves Fridays, too! :)

Love & Genealogies

This morning, I woke up with a plan to write about the creativity of God—about how He has the most dynamic landscape of a mind, and how we are reaching for its beauty in every creative, artistic movement we make. I thrive on Genesis because I am reminded of this grand idea of God as an artist: God who painted the skies and engineered the human body. Genesis also gives me a picture of creation beyond humans, as I am reminded of God’s love for all of the creation and the blessing he gives to the animals as well, as he commissions us to care for them—invites us to be creators and shepherds like Him. These are my favorite things to dream about as I read the first book of the Bible.

But something completely unexpected came up this morning when I opened my Bible to read: 

"and if I have faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.” (1 Corinthians 13:2 )

I write a lot about faith, and I talk a lot about it too—but Burt Baccarat said that what the world needs is love, not faith. To be more relevant, the scripture above ends with the lovely exclamation that the “greatest of these is: faith, hope, and love,” so surely they are all important. It’s just that love seems to matter more. Jesus told the Pharisees that the greatest commandments were to love your neighbor as yourself and to love the Lord God with all your heart, soul, and mind. I feel pretty convinced, at this point, that I cannot write off love as an overly talked about subject to be avoided, or something “already covered.”

However, I assume that everyone knows about Jesus’ teachings regarding love, and the many famous—often shared at weddings—scriptures that the authors of the Bible penned. This is surely why so many people can love Jesus, even if they have no desire to know Him. But when we read Genesis, where is the love? Can we find it within Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, or the cursing God? Richard Dawkins claims that the God of the Old Testament is a significantly different, darker God than the hippie Jesus, who may or may not be your homeboy.

It’s true that the first book of the Bible lacks glitz and glam, at times—it’s not the parables, the Sermon on the Mount, or the intense writings of Paul the thinker. And yet, I found something in the least likely of places. As I was reading the genealogies, I found love. Yes, I said genealogies. And what is sweet to me is that these are the parts of the Bible that so often challenge me most in my quest to “finish” the Bible, as I read through them with guilt for wasting my time (hold that thought).

After Cain kills Abel out of envy, Abel’s blood cries out from the ground while Cain lies to the Father about what he has done. God looks upon Cain with tremendous grief—His creation has put to death His creation. The wonder of all that He made, and “it was good”, has collapsed. Cain has killed both his own brother and a part of himself as well, and God must withdraw His presence. But as He does, He marks Cain for Cain’s protection—and to protect God’s other children who might kill Cain and suffer seven times over what Cain has suffered.

The story of Cain is rich. My heart aches as I imagine what God must have felt. How easy it is to see the punishment without looking deeper into the heart of God, and I can’t help but wonder about His heart above all things. I wonder if we often overlook the challenge that the Father has to protect so many of us from things we cannot understand. We think vengeance feels good, and He knows it does not. We think we understand the means to the end justice, but we do not. We have a fractured, imperfect, dangerously flawed understanding of all that we acquired with the fruit of the tree. We think that because God sewed us garments in the garden after we realized we were “naked” that we are suddenly equipped, prepared for all that has come as a consequence of that moment in time. Despite our greatest efforts to muster up courage and wisdom, we can be rather pitiful at times. Yet, love is patient, love is kind… it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs… it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres… Love never fails.

The story of Cain ends, and Adam’s family line begins. I start to feel as if there are other things I should be doing, but then I remember what I wrote about yesterday, and I can feel God sitting with me. The Bible now seems more like a family album. Each name excites the heart of God in a unique way; everything He loves about them rushes to mind, and I can feel that He wants to tell me their stories, or to tell me how He made them and who they are. I imagine that He doesn’t look at me, but at the pages—reminiscing, loving. This is our family. These are His children. My brothers and sisters. I am to love them. My heart feels full as I start to understand, more clearly, how the creator delights in those He has made, each and every one. He is not like me. He does not wander among gravestones in a cemetery with little curiosity for the lives represented. He is burdened as the Father of all, and for each, He gives all of His time and all of His notice. He does not have “better things to do.”

Captain of My Ship: Master of My Soul

I made a decision last week. I’ve never been one to support resolutions, but after reading The Happiness Project, I’ve resolved to abandon my cynicism and even discovered that New Year’s Eve is my favorite holiday of the year. The truth is that I love reading everyone’s social media comments about gratitude, reflection, and plans for the future. I even love the cheesy shows, like watching a giant ball drop in a crowded, freezing city street, and listening to crummy bands play on the television screen as everyone in the crowd dances like wannabe strippers. My favorite show this year, though, was a review of YouTube’s most popular videos and crazes from the year. We are an odd species, and I appreciate that. I know, without any hesitation, that there is a wealth of darkness in the world, and this is the one time of the year when, collectively, we seem to take a deep breath of hope and turn the other cheek to darkness. It’s also nice to get a kiss at midnight.

So what will I resolve to do in 2014? Well, I’ve made a list, and much of it has to do with Eric, but one of the things has to do with this blog too (we’ll see what happens). The most precious thing to me, however, is my resolution to finish more books. I didn’t care much for reading as a teenager, even though I started reading at a young age, so when I decided to make a Pinterest board to memorialize all of the books I’ve actually delved into cover to cover, I was saddened by the shallow pile. I read a lot, but I tend to abandon books for the newer, shinier cover with the flashier title—I am always searching for the greatest intellectual high. I need to work on savoring.

The hardest thing to face now is that The Bible is not on my Pinterest board.

I don’t think I would have felt much about this before John Mark Comer delivered his “with-ness” sermon on the Sunday before Christmas week. Before, I believed—in all honesty—that “finishing” the Holy Book was more like a Christian initiation project, or an item on a Christian to-do list that would have no return other than protecting me from the shame of being found out. I wasn’t only afraid of what other Christians would think of me (it has been almost 10 years that I have been following Jesus), but I was more afraid of what intellectual non-religious friends might think. I am inclined to believe that they might find it more appealing to befriend a girl with God in her head and heart, rather than the God of the scriptures in her brain. They might also think that “finishing” the Bible would set me straight; the problem with that is that I’ve read most of it, and I know how messed up it can be. Yet, my love for Jesus is genuine—it’s not merely in my head and my heart—and I always find that the toughest of biblical moments can lead me to stronger faith, even when I think that there can be no reassurance for the obstacles I face and questions I ask.

Ultimately, I desire with-ness. What if John Mark is right? What if the scriptures are primarily used for spending time with God? What if when I read I can find myself in a room of my own—a place where Jesus meets me and spends time with me and reminds me of the sweetness of his presence. I hate doing the dishes, but somehow, if Eric and I do them together, the entire task is transformed. I realize now that I’ve always approached the Word of God as a textbook to be studied, understood, challenged, and defended. I’ve even treated it as a Magic-8 Ball of sorts, filled with fantastical stories and written words of wisdom from Jesus that I can use to fine-tune my path and color the world new with narrative and meaning.

I’ve never seen the pages of the Bible as a place—its pages are open and I can hear God whispering, come sit with me.

In the beginning, God made us. He put us in a garden, and I wish I were there now where man and woman could stand naked and unashamed along with all of the animals we named. God told us not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil; instead, he gave us His presence and He asked us to trust Him for all of this knowledge—to believe that He could be our all-knowing guide in matters of right and wrong. Our friend and counselor. Our Father. But the thought of being forever children—innocent and reliant upon our Father in matters of good and evil—was too much to bear. So we traded His presence for the apple, the 10 commandments, and a new order. We became the captains of our ships, the masters of our souls.

Can I steer this ship towards you My God? Can I resolve to savor each and every page of your text in the midst of your presence and live the rest of my days knowing what it means to be with you?