Month: January 2018

Excuse my simplicity, but this is what I believe.

After all the clashing of religious truths, after the endless verbiage of theologians, and at the end of every spiritual quest, there are three immortal words spoken by the Apostle John: “God is love.”

Could it really be this simple? Yes! Love. But what kind of love? We see romantic love,  love of Self, love of money, love of power, love of our own family, tribe, or political party at the exclusion of others. In February, a month equated with love, it behooves us to recall some words from the New Testament, that collection of writings that rise like a hymn of God’s love sung to all of us.

The first were spoken by Jesus, part of the accumulated sayings we call The Sermon on the Mount. I have chosen Eugene Peterson’s The Message version because of its bold freshness.

       You’re familiar with the old written law, “Love your friend,” and its unwritten companion, “Hate your enemy.” I’m challenging that. I’m telling you to love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer, for then you are working out of your true selves, your God-created selves. This is what God does. He gives his best—the sun to warm and the rain to nourish—to everyone, regardless: the good and bad, the nice and nasty. If all you do is love the lovable, do you expect a bonus? Anybody can do that. If you simply say hello to those who greet you, do you expect a medal? Any run-of-the-mill sinner does that.
           In a word, what I’m saying is, Grow up. You’re kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you.” – Matthew 5:43-48

The second selection is from the Apostle Paul, a man who “breathed hatred” towards Jesus’ followers, then had a conversion so dramatic that he climbed what I call the Everest of Love. From that lofty vantage point, he wrote the timeless words of I Corinthians 13, a Himalayan peak of world literature. Here are a few of its verses, again from The Message, so applicable to our lives today!

     If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don’t love, I’m nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.  If I speak God’s Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, “Jump,” and it jumps, but I don’t love, I’m nothing. If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don’t love, I’ve gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love.
      Love never gives up. Love cares more for others than for self. Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have. Love doesn’t strut, doesn’t have a swelled head, doesn’t force itself on others, isn’t always “Me first,” doesn’t fly off the handle, doesn’t keep score of the sins of others, doesn’t revel when others grovel. Love takes pleasure in the flowering of truth, puts up with anything, trusts God always, always looks for the best. Love never looks back, but keeps going to the end.

I pray that the depth and quality of our love for all people will grow, not only this month of February 2018, but throughout our allotted days. God is love and love is our highest calling.

A jailhouse tattoo on the forearm of a San Quentin inmate: that’s when I first saw the word. We were in a visiting room, seated under harsh fluorescent light as I interviewed him for an article.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It’s the Chinese character for crisis,” he said, “but it’s made up of two symbols, one meaning danger, the other opportunity.”

“Why did you put it there?” I asked.

His smile said, I was hoping you’d ask.

“Because the events that led to my incarceration, along with the danger in a place like this, actually gave me the opportunity to turn my life around.”

Since then I’ve learned that this translation of  危机, wēijī, is incorrect. But the cultural trope remains, especially in America, popularized in speeches by John F. Kennedy, Condoleeza Rice, Al Gore, and scores of motivational speakers.

On New Year’s Eve, 2017, I thought of wēijī as a loved one said to me, “Krin, I want to talk with you about my crisis of faith.”

Nothing stirs me more than discussing spiritual matters. These are messages from the deepest fronts of our Selves, struggles that reflect the essence of why we are created. I was all ears.

She told me that she is increasingly skeptical of her traditional Christianity. It began with simple questions about other religions. How could she claim that hers was the only valid path, especially when she saw that happenstance of birth and culture clearly mold our beliefs?

Her thinking crystallized after she saw The Book of Mormon. She considered the fantasies of that faith: a soothsayer translating golden plates, Jesus appearing to Mesoamericans after his resurrection, a lost tribe of Israel that flourished in North America but left no shred of archaeological evidence.

“How can people believe such bizarre events?” she said with a laugh. “Then I thought about my own tradition with Jesus: a virgin birth, miracles like walking on water, the supposed need for blood shedding, resurrection from the dead.”

When I asked why she used the word crisis, she talked about the shifting ground beneath her feet, the potential judgement of others, her anxiety about the future. Would faith remain in any form at all?

When she was finished, I recalled some words from the late James Fowler: “When we are grasped by the vision of a center of value and power more luminous, more inclusive and truer than that to which we are devoted, we initially experience the new as the enemy or the slayer—that which destroys our ‘god.’”

Then I shared my journey, one human being to another. I talked about my grasp of Fowler’s Stages of Faith, especially the movement from 3 to 4. It’s a time to emerge from the spoon-fed acculturation of family and nation. A time to step outside our boxes and see the beauty of other beliefs. A time of both/and, not either/or. A time of release from the creeds and doctrines that too often calcify our brains and spiritual development. A time to join the pilgrimage of all people in our common humanity. This is the ancient way mentioned in Psalm 139:24 of the Hebrews.

“I deeply admire your courage,” I told her. “And I believe that what you label a crisis is actually a beautiful opportunity. It’s a calling to experience the universal love that lights the path of all our journeys. Let’s keep talking. I, and countless others, are with you!”

On the cusp of a new year, what a joy to be part of this birthing!