"Simply, to Thy cross I cling," or The Girl Comes Around

I've been filling my life with everything except for Jesus. It's gotten so horrendous that now, when I try to pray, I think about the things distracting me. So bad that I'm too embarrassed to write such a silly distraction here, in my tiny corner of the internet that only I inhabit, typing up posts that only I (I think) read. It seems like, at least in terms of many things right now, I feel like there's only one person I can talk to. And that one person isn't Jesus. I've been trying, but it still feels like a disconnect.

I can't let it keep happening. I am in desperate need of my Savior. I am nothing without him.

What more is there to say?

Interfaithing: Love and Marriage

Ever since high school, the interfaith movement has meant a lot to me. I was raised in a rural community (well, several) that was (were) primarily white, middle class, and Christian. The summer before I began high school, after moving to a suburb of St. Louis, I took a P.E. class so that I would be able to take choir - an elective for which I didn't have room in my rigorous schedule - in the fall. The first day, I met Nipun. We happened to be sitting at the same table at our class meeting spot, and we started talking. Eventually, we talked about Harry Potter - an obsession of ours, if you will - and the rest, I guess, is history. Nipun is Indian. She was born and raised in a white suburban community, one of only a few South Asian students and the only Hindu at our predominantly-white, almost exclusively-Christian, conservative, "average American" suburban high school.

I would like to say that I just enjoyed making a friend so quickly, but that's not the whole story. I didn't just enjoy being around Nipun, I was fascinated by her. I wanted to know about the religious reasons that she didn't eat meat, and how her family immigrated, and where she worshiped, and whether she spoke Hindi at home, and a million other things. So I asked, and we talked. And I told my family. Even though most of the conversations we had over the course of that summer revolved around our similarities and common interests, I was in love with everything that was different about us.

By our sophomore year, Nipun was one of my closest friends. Among others in our cohort were two Jewish twins, a Mexican-American, and a Filipino-American. We were school-loving, parent-pleasing, Harry Potter-obsessed girls who loved to laugh, and - most importantly - we cared deeply about one another. I have been infinitely blessed by the people God has given me to walk with. High school would have been absolutely miserable without my friends; they made it worth the emotional heartache, overwork, and constant anxiety. I love them, and, no matter where our paths take us, I will love them forever.

I suppose I digress (although digressions often convey more about what we're really trying to say than we think). Our junior year of high school, my friends began a club about interfaith understanding and learning. It was a hard sell to the principal - it smacked of collaboration between church and state (ours was a public school) even though another school club was allowed to hold teacher-led Bible studies on campus. Anyway, it happened. It was short-lived, but it meant a lot to them. It meant a lot to me, too, although I didn't really understand its importance at the time. But more on my interfaith journey later. For now, I was to narrow the focus to something I've been thinking a lot about over the last month. This issue, like all others regarding interfaith questions, begs where, short of universalism, one must let go of multi-faith ideas and cling to the Word of God.

I ask this not only in terms of what is acceptable to consider as truth across boundaries of faith but when considering how we relate to one another. Specifically, at the moment, my thoughts linger on the question of interfaith marriage. I know that re-considering my beliefs on the topic is, by itself, treading dangerous ground. I was raised to believe that marriage is a bond made holy by God. Romantic love is only an extension of Christ's love for us (and ours for Christ). One must not marry selfishly; the aim must be to further the Kingdom of God. Because of this belief, I was always taught that marrying a non-Christian is wrong. The commonly-cited verse in defense of this is 2 Corinthians 6:14:

"Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers. For what partnership has righteousness with lawlessness? Or what fellowship has light with darkness?"

Those who believe that interfaith marriage is possible turn to 2 Corinthians 7:14:

"For the unbelieving husband is made holy because of his wife, and the unbelieving wife is made holy because of her husband..."

Both verses have context issues. The verse from 2 Corinthians is not explicitly about marriage. The latter comes in the middle of Paul's directions concerning existing married couples in which one person is not a believer.

Considering these things is, of course, a very preliminary step in thinking about interfaith marriage as a whole. The usual questions still exist: in which faith would children be raised, how would you tithe, etc. More importantly, can marriage exist in the God's perfect, intended form between one person who believes that Jesus Christ is the salvation of the world and one who does not?

Joy Comes in the Mo(u)rning

     I will extol you, O Lord, for you have drawn me up

          and have not let my foes rejoice over me.

    O Lord my God, I cried to you for help,

          and you have healed me.

    O Lord, you have brought up my soul from Sheol;

          you restored me to life from among those who go down to the pit.

    Sing praises to the Lord, O you his saints,

          and give thanks to his holy name.

    For his anger is but for a moment,

          and his favor is for a lifetime.

    Weeping may tarry for the night,

          but joy comes with the morning. (Psalm 30:1-5)

Life is joy, and pain. It is happiness, and sorrow. Many wise people have observed that the magnitude of our sorrow both comes from and reflects our joy. Those things that make us happiest are the hardest to lose. It seems like common sense, and yet I find myself forgetting. I find myself hiding from my sorrow and lamenting my pain, as though angst were unnatural or unhealthy. Yet, it isn't either of those things. God created sorrow. Without it, there would be no joy. We would all be walking around in a constant state of numbness; of course, we wouldn't realize this because we would only know one emotion. We wouldn't be joyful even if we were full of joy. Thus, sorrow. It serves so many purposes. It is natural, and, in the right doses and for the right reasons, it is healthy. In the intense sorrow I have felt over the past two weeks, I have come to realize that it is even more: it is good. It is yet another reason to praise God.

Let us say, then, that joy comes in the mourning. Or perhaps it doesn't. But it should. We should find a kind of joy in our angst. I don't mean in a sadistic way; I'm not referring to Voltaire's pleasure in having no pleasure. We should rejoice in our humanity, in our being what God made us to be. We should also rejoice in the fact that we feel sorrow because God made us in His image. Our ability to feel sorrow is a reflection of God's own tendency to feel sorrow. In fact, it is because of God's sorrow and pain that we have eternity. 

Working to be thankful for our pain, to rejoice in it, is a difficult task. But we are commanded to do it. "Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!" (Phil. 4:4). Paul felt that this command needed to be repeated. He drove the point home by writing, near the end of his letter to the Philippians, "...for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need." (4:11b-12).

Love, Leonard Cohen famously wrote, is "a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." This Hallelujah - this praise in the midst of and because of our sorrow - is so important. I've been wasting the days away, telling myself that time heals everything and that I simply have to wait until I feel better. That isn't right. Trying to hasten away our pain only cheapens the joy that we once had and will have. I don't want to cheapen it. The sharper the angst, the greater the joy was or will be. In my case, my happiness was unbounded. I knew that it would end abruptly. I made the decision to pursue a path that would end in hurt. It was worth it, though; it was worth every tear. So, then, let those tears be cried with purpose. Let me not try to chase my pain away. Let me think on it, and be thankful for it, and remember this season in my life as one that Christ carried me through. And, of course, let me remember that, no matter what I feel now, "joy comes in the morning."