Angels

We talked on Sunday about angels and I did the typical post-enlightenment pastor thing where I talked about angels as messengers of the good news and how we all are called to be angels. I stand by that demythologizing message, but it's a bit dull.

No wings. No halos. No robes of white. 

(One kid did talk about angels being white and it made me think about how we picture Jesus and the heavenly hosts. I'll never forget sitting in a church in Africa and the only white people were Kirt, Jesus and I. But that's a whole different blog about race.)

My systematic theology doesn't have guardian angels in it. I place my faith and hope in Jesus as a glimpse of eternal love as witnessed in his death and resurrection. That's my core belief and guardian angels lead me into all kinds of weird places, much like Kushtakas and ghosts. 

But here's my problem. Those things don't fit into my theology, but I've bumped into them enough that they mess with my reality.

I don't believe in guardian angels because I don't know what to do with creatures from another plane of existence who intervene to save my ass while Joe Blow's guardian angel lets him get run over by a train. I can't get that to make sense, but I've had a guardian angel save my booty.

Atlanta 1994
I lived in a small intentional community in Barnesville, GA just south of Atlanta on Possum Trot Road. We got a small stipend and worked providing hospitality for friends and family of people on death row. 

I saved up my stipend to go see Cirque de Soleil in Atlanta. I stayed with some friends who worked with Habitat for Humanity, but they couldn't go see the show with me so I was on my own. 

This was before cell phones, before the Olympics boosted Atlanta's public transportation, and before I developed my entire brain to process good ideas. I'd traveled extensively so I told my friends I would be fine, except I really don't have a good sense of direction. I got off MARTA to walk back to their house, but there was a gang of young men gathered around the map so I decided now was not a good time to stand in front of it, in the dark, in the pouring rain, and get oriented. 

I chose a direction and walked confidently. 

This normally works out for me, except when it's dark, I have no money left, and it's raining. After a while, I realized I had no idea where my friends lived, I found myself in an area where there was no sign of life, no stores, nor even traffic in this burned out, boarded up part of Atlanta. 

I still remember stopping in the middle of the sidewalk with tears starting to roll down as I realized I was in some serious trouble. I uttered the prayer that has probably crossed more lips than any other, "O God, help." I've never felt so lost and helpless as I did at that moment.

Then, the door of what looked like an abandoned warehouse flew open and a large, intoxicated woman stared out at me and said, "What the hell are you doing out here?" 

She dragged me into her place and it was a large room with decorated toilet seats adorning an entire wall. With a slight slur, she explained to me that she was having a gallery opening of her designer toilet seats, but nobody showed up so she drank all the wine. She couldn't give me a ride home, but I could call my friend. 

My friend nearly had a fit when I told her where I was, but she came and got me. She made me tell the story several times, shaking her head each time. 

There's no doubt in my mind that my guardian angel would be an intoxicated woman who designs toilet seats. I've tried to come up with all kinds of rational explanations, but here's where I end up:

If I can't get things to make sense, then simple gratitude is the appropriate response. 

The day will come when we will see clearly and understand. For now it's enough to put our trust in the good news of God's eternal love, but always leave room for surprises.

Snow

This is as light as it got today

I drove out towards the end of the road today hoping to find a respite from the rain. Sometimes if you keep heading Northish the clouds clear and the sun pops out, but not normally. Sometimes it's just cathartic to remember the end of the road exists. It's a good reminder that you can't drive your way out of responsibilities and messes.

Margaret Atwood once wrote about the high suicide rate in Vancouver, which I think would speak for Alaska as well. She said something about people keep moving West thinking they can escape their past and start fresh until they reach the coast and realize they are still stuck with themselves. That's how I remember it, but I'm too lazy to find the quote and I think it rings true with the experience in the frontier.

It's a lot like snow. Not that we would know since all of ours is gone now. I'm bitter and slightly grumpy. I love snow and I like to think of it as an image for grace. It floats down and covers all the ugly with pure beauty.

Except that's a shitty image for grace and one that the church clings to way too often. Cover up the shit, make it look pure, and we'll all be happy.

Then it melts, the rain washes it away and you're left with all the piles of dog shit and broken toys left in the yard. This year, we had the added bonus of our pumpkins. The first snow caught us by the surprise so once it was all gone, we had to scrape the rotting pumpkins off the porch.

I want grace to be like the pure and beautiful snow, but it's much more like the rain. It washes away the veneer and let's us face our shit with a garbage bag in hand. You can leave it, but it's way less fun to play in when it's all over your shoes, and you're sliding around, and then you're tracking it through the house.

Grace gives us the confidence that we matter and we are loved even if our backyard looks like a disaster zone. We don't have to hide it under snow, but can get to work cleaning it up. It's not pretty, but it's easier than moving just because your yard is full of feces.

I give thanks for the snow and for drives out to the end of the road where we get a bit of respite from the hard work of being human. I'm not opposed to denial and escaping reality. Sometimes you need a break from hard truths.  I just know sooner or later, reality returns and the longer you wait, the more piles of shit you have to clean up.

Instant Pot

I'm slightly pathetic when it comes to reading binges. I've found a new love so I'm staying up a little late and delaying work. I haven't resorted to a flashlight under the covers, but it's close. I'm reading Peter May's Lewis Trilogy set in Scotland. 

So I'm recycling an article I wrote in 2011 that still rings pretty true, except now I want an Instant Pot. Those are amazing. Not as amazing as Scottish mysteries, but still phenomenal.