To an Atheist on Why I’m a Christian

Some time ago, I exchanged some correspondence with a young atheist about what it means to say that I am a Christian and whether that path is one worthy, let alone true, for any human being (the conversation was largely framed by his questions and challenges – it’s not where I would have started if the choice were mine).

Pondering yesterday’s beautiful, if gloomy day-time skies and last night’s wowing full moon, I was reminded of our conversations, a part of which on my end went like this:

If you and I stood side by side at a sunset, we would both be moved.  

Even if we were both thinking on the dust particles that caused what we saw, the beauty of what we saw would move us emotionally or spiritually or both.  Even if no words passed between us, we would still have shared and communicated something of great value. 

I experience that beauty of shared experience with other Christians almost every day – in prayer, in holding the hand of the dying, in watching my aunt Bonnie slipping so quietly and graciously from this life, in a marriage ceremony where two lives are joined together as one, in songs of praise, in laughter and in tears.  

Why am I a Christian? Because I have stood on that holy ground time after time after time, knowing that God was there with us.  As I said before, I'm a lucky gal.

I Forgot That I'm Good at This

I forgot that I’m good at some things – like hospitality.  I had some friends over for lunch today, a last-night spur-of-the-moment thing.  So I took what was on hand and made deconstructed (yes, I just used the word ‘deconstructed’ in a sentence and I’m proud of it!) BLTs.  It all came together beautifully.

Here’s the thing: I love to entertain folks in my home.  Always have.  I can remember making a turkey dinner with all the fixins for some friends when I was 18.  And making my parents a Valentine’s Day dinner of manicotti when I was 16.  There’ve been a long line of shared meals over the years, but in recent times (measured from when I became a pastor), that practice has dwindled to a mere trickle of hospitality.

What happened to my hostess mojo?  I have no idea, but I suspect it went where my energy did – into my job (I know, it’s a vocation, a calling, not a job – but it’s a job too – shout out to Erin for the reminder).

I think I’m on a come-back – I’ve already planned a late-evening dinner later this month and have begun doing some thinking on the menu.  Yes, I admit it, I hope to impress.  But even more, I hope to delight.

A seminary buddy once observed that whenever he has guests, he always serves bread and wine, because friends around the table is always sacramental.  Sloane’s right.  It is sacramental.

There’s holy ground around the table.

We didn’t have wine today, but we did have bread and cranberry juice – close enough.

Yep, definitely a come-back.

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*Deconstructed BLT’s (easy)

1 half loaf of any good rustic bread – I used rosemary bread today (if you really want to show off,                bake your own.  I used store bought.
½ pound pepper bacon (Schwann’s has some good stuff) - baked until crisp (400 degree over for 12-           15 minutes)
2-3 fresh tomatoes
mozzarella cheese 
olive oil & balsamic vinegar
salt & pepper
romaine lettuce
butter
olive oil w/ salt and cayenne for dipping

Warm the bread and cut into rectangular slices good for butter spreading or oil dipping.

Break bacon slices in half as a good size for impromptu sandwich or just as finger food
Slice tomatoes onto plate interspersed with slices of mozzarella & drizzle with olive oil & vinegar.  Salt & pepper to taste.

Use the smaller (middle) leaves of romaine and serve standing up in a cup or glass.

It’s all finger food except the tomato/mozzarella salad, that can be put together in any combo your guests desire.  

Serves 3-4.

This Praying With

I prayed with someone today.

It is a ginormous gift – this praying with.

Every now and then we’ll just sit in shared silence with only the offered prayer between us.

But most times the need is named, the hurt laid bare, hands are held, wounds described, silences shared, askings lifted.

It’s holy ground, this praying with.

Holy, hopeful ground, where two or more gather together and name the thing to God – the God who already knows – in the quietude of expectation – not of answers desired so much, but in the expectancy of being heard and being held.

It’s a waiting space, this praying with.

The prayer is offered, teary eyes are dried, life in the normal resumes – a little lighter as the prayer wends its way from our hearts to God’s.  But then begins the waiting – what will God’s answer will be and when will it come.  There is comfort that we wait together – I hope.

It’s meeting place, this praying with.

Masks come off when people pray together.  Hearts are laid bare.  Trust – tremulous or certain – enters in – and that trust – one in another as well as they together in God – is such an act of generosity.

I know God is worthy of it.

I hope I am.

Underpants? For Me????

I am so excited to share this particular Christmas with my grandson Rowen.  He is now 4, the perfect age to grasp the wonder and awe and majesty, to rejoice in the anticipation as much as the event, to relish each surprise as it comes his way.  To see Christmas again through such eyes is a delight and I can hardly wait.

In my family, and I suspect in yours, when it comes to Christmas gifts, some are absolutely inspired and will be remembered for a life time, but most are pretty pedestrian, the giver more appreciated than the gift.

And as soon as November rolls around in my family, we stop buying things for ourselves or others unless they’re to be saved for Christmas.  Need a new pair of socks?  Wait for Christmas and maybe Grandma will get you some.  Getting low on dental floss?  There’ll probably be some in your stocking.  And if you’re lucky, there’ll be a can of your favorite black olives all wrapped up under the tree for you.

We wrap everything and call it a gift – I love that about us, even if it does make for some pretty funny gifts (use your own imagination, but think on the advantages of Polident once you’ve reached a certain age).

But my absolute favorite gift moment has to be my son Ben, exclaiming as he opened one such family gift from me, “Underpants?  For me????”

Like Rowen, Ben was still a small boy and there was no irony in his voice.  He was genuinely thrilled to be receiving a gift of white jockey underpants.  Every single gift he opened was a new and wonderful surprise and he received them all, even the underpants, with equal joy.

I love that about him.  I loved it then and I love it still.  This son of mine always finds joy in receiving.  He doesn’t measure and find wanting.  When it comes to gifts, he sees the glass not as half full, but as overflowing.

And isn’t that so very true?

The gifts we receive are gift and giver, all rolled into one . . . what rapture, what joy, that you would think on me . . . that you would give me this . . . from you . . . oh, how lucky, how blessed am I!

Gifting is holy ground and all who stand upon it are blessed.

I don’t know whether Rowen will have his father’s unabashed excitement and gratitude at receiving gifts or not.  I hope so.  I hope I hear from him this Christmas, “Underpants?  For me????” because he is surely going to receive some.

Merry Christmas, Ben.  Be watching for those underpants.

Love, Mom