They are to be Pitied

Note:  I often mention my Family of God.  This writing, is not about them.  In fact, it is because of some like those described herein that I was compelled to join my FOG.

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Pitiful are the small, inconsequential minds of those who think that they can hurt me because of their offices and self-deluded thinking that they have some kind of authority over me.    


Pitiful is their self-contempt because they see they fall short of what/how/who they really want to be, so they lash out at and try to hurt others, when in fact, in doing so, they hurt themselves more.  


Tragic is that they confess to believe in my God.  


Tragic is that they foolishly forget my God is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent.  He was there when they lied to themselves and each other.  And He was there when they perpetrated a fraud, calling it worship.  And He was there in the aftermath when they set about their deceitful intentions, justified by their lies.  And He will be there when they stand in my face and try to assert their authority.  In response, I will simply go home, play my piano, and be at peace, at least two out of the three of which they are unable to do.  


All they can do is go home.  And most likely the places where they normally bed down for sleep, hang their clothing, prepare their meals and groom their bodies (at least the exterior) are no more than way stations rather than homes.  “Home” is a place of sanctuary, rest, relaxation, restoration, rejuvenation and refuge.  Home is a place of caring, love and acceptance, despite conflicts which may arise.   Whether a 700-square-foot one-bedroom apartment, a row house, a condominium or a three-story new construction, what they call “home” is most likely a way station, a place for them to go and get ready for the next attack on someone else because they refuse to look in a mirror and see the real problem, the real culprit.  And because they have no inner peace, it matters not the quality, size or cost of their dwelling place; there is no place that can really be home for them.


In the meantime, I will go home, a 2/2 apartment that houses both work and living space, and my piano.  It is not the piano I would have if I could have my pick of instruments, but it is the one I own.  It is not even acoustic.  But it has all 88 keys and they are reasonably weighted and the thing, a Kurzweill PC 88 that has served me well for 17 years, never needs tuning.  And on this instrument I played and recorded my very best rendition of Blessed Assurance ever in my life.  I will play my piano, commune with my God, and be at peace.  


I have a home.  I have a piano.  I have peace.  I have my God.  I have wealth beyond measure.  On the other hand, they do not.  They are to be pitied.

Facebook Rantings

This post will probably get me "unfriended" by one or two hundred folks.  That's okay.  I have been unfriended before, and this probably won't be my last time.  It's just another indication that Facebook outgrew "friending" a few million folks ago.  Maybe friending should be renamed "connecting" or "aligning" or some other term that is more suitable to birds who only seek out those of like feathers.  I allowed myself five minutes to vent and came up with this my top ten list of pet peeves -- at least for today:


1.    I REFUSE to LIKE Walmart.  My heart falls and my gut twists into a knot everytime my mom, The Boss, sends me there. Walmart is a vicious, despicable conglomeration of predators.  It preys on and victimizes its suppliers, its employees and its customers.  It gouges its suppliers.  It mistreats its employees.  And it passes off poorly manufactured goods to its customers, like laptop computers with barely enough memory to run operating systems.


2.     I  have NO idea who or what Kim Kardashian is or even if she has any socially redeeming value, which I doubt, based on the circumstances under which I hear her name in popular media (that is, if media has any veracity, which, again, is doubtful), nor do I care to know.


3.     Jesus, the Christ is my Lord and Savior, of Whom I am not ashamed.  Still, I doubt that in the flesh he was the handsome dark-haired, blue-eyed hunk as he has been portrayed.  He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.  (Isaiah 53:2).  


4.     I pray daily, throughout the day, and am uttering one now, asking God the Father to still the hands of folks who think it their mission to shove their beliefs, regardless of the issue, down my throat, by telling me what to LIKE and what to SHARE, and the contingent circumstances upon which I am to do so.


5.     Despite my beliefs and my opinions, they will be mine even if they are not yours.  I may or may not agree with you, but I respect your right to think/believe as you deem appropriate, even if contrary to what I think/believe.  Please allow me the same consideration.  Of course, if you don't that's okay, too.  You will be ignored.  And you will probably unfriend me.  Cool.


6.     I do not believe that SHARING or FORWARDING or LIKING anything in particular, for any specific number of times with a specific number of people, will put me in better stead with the Almighty God.  It rains on the just and the unjust, and we are all some of both.  


7.     God is not a genie.  You don't get three wishes; you get to live your life based on the choices you made, as do I.  Sometimes He will show you an extra measure of unmerited favor -- perhaps you call it grace, or sometimes you will forego the consequences of your actions -- perhaps you call that mercy; that doesn't make you any more highly favored as the next person; we all get that, to some degree, from time to time.


8.     I do not care to see intimate moments of anyone on my Facebook page, whether male/female, male/male, or female/female, or, God forbid, male/other or female/other, where other is something in lieu of homo sapien.


9.     I do not care to see pictures of barely dressed people.  I don't know which is worse, a picture posted to laugh at or ridicule, or a picture posted to tantalize.  Neither are appealing.  Both are offensive.   This being said, I am not a prude; there is simply a time and place for everything.


10.     My "church" clothes are always ready.  I get up on Sunday morning, do the necessary daily grooming, go to my closet and pull out something neatly pressed and clean, generally a dress shirt or twin set and a pair of trousers, occasionally a suit, and appropriate accessories.  I still have to watch those dirty stains that appear on my heart, however.


Looking forward to "friending" new folks as my current roll declines, and

Finally, brethren, Be perfect, be of good comfort,

be of one mind, live in peace;

and the God of love and peace shall be with you.

 II Corinthians 13:11 (KJV)

Obstacles: Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing (Part I)

There's nothing like a good Bible Study to stir the pen. Okay, the keyboard.

I'll keep this short, but first a little housekeeping:

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, I'll finish this item 4 later . . .

I'm sure you know the story of the woman who always cut a head of cabbage in half, cooked one half and discarded the other, because that's they way her mother did it, and that's the way her mother's mother did it. It turns out that her grandmother did it that way because her pot could only hold half a head of cabbage.

Alright, it might have not been a head of cabbage, but surely you see the message here: Oftentimes we do things out of tradition. At least that's the word that is frequently tossed about as the salve to heal all frustrations spawned by the never-ending question: Why? Why? Why this way and not that? Why?

Earlier this year while conducting a choir rehearsal this exchange took place:

Andrea: You know folks, I only see you a couple of times a year and we have a limited time to prepare for worship, so would you hold down the excess talk so we can get through this?

Male choir member: Well, you know, we have our traditions.

Andrea: Yes, and your traditions might take you straight to hell.

As a child I wondered why we do some of the things we do, especially among our church congregations and in our houses of worship. Why must we wear white on first Sunday? Why must someone plop that little doily thing on my head while I'm playing the communion service? What do you mean I have to cover my head? What do you think that stuff that grows out of my scalp is for? (Not intentionally, but since I tend to move around a bit when playing the piano, that little doily thing often landed on the floor.)

And just a few years ago, my best friend said to me: I'd love to come to your Christmas concert but I just have on a plain dress. My reply: Well, I'm sure you'll fit in just fine. Why was this little exchange so weird to me? As usual, I'm glad you asked. Until recently I suffered tremendously with insomnia, sometimes going for three or four days without real sleep. I decided to try a change of venue and checked into a downtown hotel for a couple of nights. (Checking into hometown hotels was nothing new for me. I did the same thing while in seminary when I had writer's block.) After checking out of the Crowne Plaza, I drove straight down Main Street, and as I approached my Place of worship, and it being Sunday and all, I had a tremendous yearning to attend the 8:30 worship service as I normally do. I parked my Jeep in the usual spot, and approached the side entrance, tentatively, just as our Minister of Music arrived. He greeted me with his normal gigantic smile, eyes twinkling, teeth flashing, and greeted me: hey girl! Come on in here! What was so unusual about that? Girl was sporting a warmup suit and athletic shoes.

The really cool thing is that no one who spoke to me that day gave any indication that I grossed them out because of my attire. They looked at me -- not my togs.

Now, before I dwell on clothing and the reader thinks it's just about fashion, let's move on. Since I promised to keep this short, I'll have to deem this writing Part I, and will end with this:

Traditions aren't all they're cracked up to be, according to Paul in the second chapter of Galatians.

News flash: Not only is it not about tradition, it's not about the rituals. And it's not even about the religion. But it's all about the relationship.

The Family of God for Me in That Place

This evening I was reminded of why I chose to become a member of a particular congregation. We sometimes refer to ourselves as the family of God in this place. This place is our campus -- where we meet for worship, to learn, to fellowship, and to celebrate weddings and new babies and souls gone on with beautiful memorial services that celebrate life. We dedicate babies and commit to supporting their nurture, growth and development. We baptize new believers. We pray with an for each other and others. We encourage and commission missionaries who go near and far to spread the Gospel of Jesus. We have fun and food -- fun for the entire family and food that is consistently good.

About 11 years ago I started going to worship at the 8:30 service at that place when I still held leadership positions in music ministry. That was my hour of worship, unencumbered by worry or wondering -- whether "she" would properly execute her solo, or if "he" would be on time, or whether the drummer would be too loud -- too fast -- too slow -- or too much. Some percussionists don't understand that they are most often accompanists for the accompanists (primary instruments [piano and organ]), who are accompanying the real messengers -- the singers. In that hour I was free to commune with God and His family in that place.

It turned out that the family of God in that place are really nice folks. They not only speak to strangers, but do so with a smile, a firm handshake, a pat on the arm or shoulder or back, a real greeting, a there's a seat up there -- it's a little closer -- do you want to come up? kind of invitation. The kinds of smiles, handshakes and invitations that say we're really glad you're here. While I am pitiful about remembering names, there were faces that had become familiar to me, and to whom mine had become familiar as well. Okay, you're probably asking how do you know your face became familiar to them? Well, it's like this: miss a couple of Sundays and then go back. The welcome to South Main greetings are tossed in favor of it's so good to see you again.

When I left music ministry in 2003 I visited a few churches closer to my home, but on that first Sunday in April 2003 I went back to that place where I had been welcomed so frequently. I have been there since. I cannot say unequivocally that there is no other place like it because I have not been to all of God's places. What I can say is there is none other that I know. Yes, our place is a nice campus that's well cared for. But what makes our place special is not the campus layout or the buildings, but the family.

So what happened? I'll spare you the gory details. After having written this, the unpleasant incident is a fading memory. Tomorrow I shall visit my place, commune with my family, have a little dinner, then prayer, Bible study and choir rehearsal. And it will be as if the memory of this evening that is now fading, was an inconsequential blink on the spectrum of eternity.