Arm Yourselves

Each day, I must put on the full armor of God. Each day, I must face the reality that Satan and his forces are after me in an intense way. I used to shrug off the possibility that Satan was indeed present in the world and that, if he was, he even messed with people like me. I mean, it's like a poorly-made horror film involving some old "secret Catholic dogma" that proves to be the only way to save some possessed teenage girl.

Except...it's not just a bad movie. It's the truth. The Bible warns us, over and over, that in spite of Christ's victory over death and over Satan, Satan will not simply let us go. In fact, he is constantly after us. He jabs at us, and then he hits us when we're down.

And, as I've lately realized, he isn't the big bully on the block. He's the little sneaky kid that pretends to be your friend and then spends all of his time whispering in your ear about your faults and weaknesses. He is the Deceiver. He is a liar, and a thief of joy. He will never stop, not until the final battle. I've been reading John Eldredge's Waking the Dead, and one chapter, aptly titled "Arm Yourselves," begins with a quote from Leif Enger that could not describe the situation more perfectly:

"We and the world, my children, will always be at war.
Retreat is impossible.
Arm yourselves."

I don't believe in coincidences, and, therefore, I don't believe that it was coincidental that I picked up this book as I finished Prince Caspian. We are at war. Always. We must arm ourselves.

Lately, as I've battled with severe bouts of anxiety and depression, I have realized the full extent to which this is true. I feel that Satan is constantly knocking me around, and, as my pastor said last weekend, I'm simply throwing one last punch at him as I go down. I know that Jesus envelops me, surrounds me, lives within me, and loves me as a pure child of God, yet my battle with the Enemy continues. Each day, it continues. Each minute, it continues.

Each second, I am fighting.

I am very tired. I am trying to remember that I don't have to fight this by myself, that Jesus is fighting on my behalf. That Michael, the Archangel, is defending me in battle. That the whole of the heavenly host is at constant war in praise of the Creator that was and is and is to come.

There's something glorious about knowing that I am fighting for my freedom, my peace, and my life. I do not enjoy it; don't get me wrong. It is terrifying and exhausting, and most days, I have trouble getting out of bed. But I know how this story ends. "I love to tell the story" because it is incredible, and beautiful.

"So tell me," sing BarlowGirl, "what is our ending? Will it be beautiful? So beautiful?"

Yes, it will. Until then, arm yourselves.

Another Love Story That Ends Badly

"Cause I"m so scared of being alone

that I forgot what house I live in;

that it's not my job to wait by the phone

for [him] to call." [Caedmon's Call, "Table for Two"]

And it isn't my job. In fact, the only real job I've ever had was that of a "priest and a prince[ss]" in the kingdom of God.

It's funny - in a way that isn't actually funny at all - how we can fall into sin when we think we're still seeking God. And how he commands certain things of us not only so that we glorify Him in our obedience but so that we're protected from heartbreak.

I never thought that I would be the girl with the love story that ended badly. I always thought - and my family did, too - that, considering my lack of a dating history, my first real relationship would also be my last. That it would be my husband. That it would be my happily ever after.

But it wasn't. I hoped that it would end that way. I had little fantasies that maybe...someday...that's how we would be. That somehow, the religious difference would go away, that in two years, when our respective commitments were done, we would end up in the same place. That we would get married. He spoke of it as though it were a possibility someday.

I later found out that he never really saw a viable future for us. I found out that I was giving him things that I shouldn't have. I found out that I was giving away pieces of my heart that I still haven't recovered. I found out that I was hiding my feelings about certain things from him so that he would love me more.

Our relationship was born out of hurt, really. "Born to uncertainty, destined for pain," I suppose. If not in the same fashion as the characters we played onstage, certainly in a similar vein.

Maybe that's how their story really ends. Forced apart, kept from returning to one another, they wait. They hurt. At least, she does. Perhaps, in his anger, his hurt goes away quickly. They regret. She considers all that she gave him only to get brokenness in return. She thinks of the other women he has loved in the past and will certainly love in the future. She wonders whether her tears will ever dry.

"A word or two, and then
a lifetime of not knowing where or how or why or when.
You'll think of me; or speak of me;
and wonder what befell that someone you once loved so long ago so well."

"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."

In the Final Analysis

In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.

Jesus presents us with what seems to be a paradox, as so many of his commands so often do. We are to love humans with everything that we have. We are to place them above ourselves. We are to serve. This is expected of us as followers of Christ. And yet, we are not to focus on things of this world. We are to constantly be looking toward Eternity. Because, "in the final analysis, it is between you and God."

I find myself struggling with this: where are our earthly cares supposed to end and our heavenly cares begin? Should there be a distinction? What exactly does it mean to be in the world but not of it?

I don't really have any answers to this right now. In fact, I'm sort of at a loss. So I'll keep praying about it, and keep reading, and keep searching.

The Greatest of These

I never tire of reading Paul's words to the Corinthians (1 Cor. 13) on love. I realize that, within the Christian tradition, we recite them over and over.

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.

 Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away...Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

In spite of what feels like the extreme overuse of this passage, it will always be one of my favorite scriptures. Until this past month, I never had the opportunity of reading them in a romantic sense before. When taken romantically, the passage is beautiful but difficult. Love makes us whole, and yet we cannot be whole without God. It is Christ's love for us and our love for Christ that gives us the ability to truly love another. And God charges us with a heavy responsibility in terms of giving earthly love, both romantic and not. First, we cannot hope to understand all that love is without allowing ourselves to be loved by our Savior and returning that love. Second, our earthly love must strive to be as pure as Christ's love for us. It must be patient and kind, even though humans, without Christ, are by nature impatient and unkind. God does not allow for jealousy or pride; in fact, true love cannot coexist with either of these. Love means being a servant to the one you love, always putting him or her above yourself - just as we must put God first. Love "rejoices with the truth," which means that it must be brutally, beautifully honest. Our love for God is honest, as he sees into our hearts. His love for us is honest, as he has revealed his heart to us. Earthly love must be just as open.

Perhaps, though, earthly, non-godly love can be all of these things on its own. Maybe. It might be possible. What Paul says next, however, is the limit of non-godly love: it "bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends." True love - and by "true love," I mean love that flows outward from the church because Christ first loved us - cannot fail. In no circumstances can it break, or wilt, or wither. It bears all. It bears all because, if it is true love, it is eternal, like us. Our salvation - Christ's gift of eternal life - makes us eternal beings. All godly things will last forever. If love is grounded in Christ, then it, too, will be never-ending.

And of all that will last eternally, Paul tells us, the greatest is love. God's love makes possible all things, from our very being to our eternal life. Yes, the greatest is love.

Then let us not use the word casually. Our language - our culture - has made it trite. We have allowed it to become so. Let us be cognizant of our use of this sacred word. It is the greatest of the eternal gifts God has granted us. We should treat it as nothing less.