I'm going to forget this, already am:
Kindergarten: Mrs. Giddens, Mrs. Stokes for music
First grade: Mrs. Welch
Second grade: Mrs. Standard near the end of the year
Third grade: Mrs. Baker (husband had died)
Fourth grade: Mrs. Gehman
Fifth Grade: Mr. Guinn (Mrs. Williams was an African-American teacher next door, as I recall)
Sixth Grade: switched out of dummy math, social studies, Philippines, Mr. Nelson, I think
Seventh Grade: Worked in the office, Mr. Dallas for history
Eighth Grade: Mr. Nelson for science (that rap song came out--Hip, hop, hippety-ta-hippety), AA woman for algebra 1
Ninth Grade: Mrs. Gauss for English; AA woman for geometry, Mr. Packard for American history, was it? Mr. Brandt for electronics; short blond woman for PE--swimming
Tenth Grade: Mrs. Nixon for Biology, Mr. Atchison for Algebra 2, Mr. Atkinson for chemistry; Coach Hurley
Eleventh Grade: Mr. Pickett for trig/analytical, Mr. Hadley, Mr. Atkinson for chem 2
Twelfth Grade: Mr. Pickett for Calculus, Mrs. Van Roo, Ms. goofy for modern european history, Ms. physics, Mr. Stock
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Sunday, May 12, 2013
My Understanding of the World 1
In another generation, I would write in a journal. Perhaps one day someone would take interest, perhaps a child of mine. At this point it does not look that my contribution to the world will be significant enough for anyone to study me. I do think some people would find my ideological biography interesting and I have given a peek of one strand of it elsewhere.
I also realize more and more how much a person must guard their words when you live in a representative role. I am currently Dean of a seminary of a church in which I am ordained. That means my words represent my church, my university, and my denomination all at once. There are also people you don't want to hurt or offend. In short, some thoughts are best not shared until either you or your generation are dead. Sometimes some thoughts would best not be shared until a second generation had also passed.
I post here some thoughts now because I am going to Turkey in a little more than a week, dv. I want to put some thoughts down in a place where they can be found but where they probably won't be found quite so readily. How I tire of my detractors, most of whom probably do not even understand what I am saying half the time. How I have dumbed myself down over the years and hated myself for having to do it. But in case I die, I wanted to sketch my basic understanding of the world.
1. First, I believe there is only one thing of which we can be entirely certain, and that is that something exists. Descartes said, "I think; therefore, I am." Even this statement went too far. It would not have been as snappy, but a more accurate statement would be, "I think; therefore what I am calling 'thought' exists." The notion of an "I" is itself riddled with assumptions.
2. All other claims to truth involve faith of some sort. On the one hand, there are a host of data from the world whose existence works so well that it is worth calling them "facts." Certainly almost everything that can be questioned has been questioned. Am I dreaming right now? Am I a brain in a vat? It is ultimately a matter of faith that I am not a sophisticated computer program, but it is a very reasonable act of faith.
"There is a dog lying on my bed." Given my experience at this moment in time, it is reasonable for me to call this statement a fact. Empiricism is "true" to the extent that the content of my understanding of the world is built out of these facts. Empiricism is not sufficient to account for my understanding of the world because the organization of these facts is a function of my mind, which is a function of my brain. But these data are the materials from which my mind constructs understanding and perspective.
You will recognize in the previous paragraphs the influence of Kant, as well as a hint of Rorty. There are reasonable assumptions to make in this world, reasonable because these assumptions "work." Almost everything can be questioned--and far more than we want to assume is a "warranted basic belief," in the words of Plantinga. But there are data worth calling facts, especially objects that correspond to what Locke called simple impressions.
3. Where things get sticky is in the interpretations of facts, the organizations of our sense experiences in our minds, the "unities of consciousness" our minds create out of the simple impressions we have of the world...
I also realize more and more how much a person must guard their words when you live in a representative role. I am currently Dean of a seminary of a church in which I am ordained. That means my words represent my church, my university, and my denomination all at once. There are also people you don't want to hurt or offend. In short, some thoughts are best not shared until either you or your generation are dead. Sometimes some thoughts would best not be shared until a second generation had also passed.
I post here some thoughts now because I am going to Turkey in a little more than a week, dv. I want to put some thoughts down in a place where they can be found but where they probably won't be found quite so readily. How I tire of my detractors, most of whom probably do not even understand what I am saying half the time. How I have dumbed myself down over the years and hated myself for having to do it. But in case I die, I wanted to sketch my basic understanding of the world.
1. First, I believe there is only one thing of which we can be entirely certain, and that is that something exists. Descartes said, "I think; therefore, I am." Even this statement went too far. It would not have been as snappy, but a more accurate statement would be, "I think; therefore what I am calling 'thought' exists." The notion of an "I" is itself riddled with assumptions.
2. All other claims to truth involve faith of some sort. On the one hand, there are a host of data from the world whose existence works so well that it is worth calling them "facts." Certainly almost everything that can be questioned has been questioned. Am I dreaming right now? Am I a brain in a vat? It is ultimately a matter of faith that I am not a sophisticated computer program, but it is a very reasonable act of faith.
"There is a dog lying on my bed." Given my experience at this moment in time, it is reasonable for me to call this statement a fact. Empiricism is "true" to the extent that the content of my understanding of the world is built out of these facts. Empiricism is not sufficient to account for my understanding of the world because the organization of these facts is a function of my mind, which is a function of my brain. But these data are the materials from which my mind constructs understanding and perspective.
You will recognize in the previous paragraphs the influence of Kant, as well as a hint of Rorty. There are reasonable assumptions to make in this world, reasonable because these assumptions "work." Almost everything can be questioned--and far more than we want to assume is a "warranted basic belief," in the words of Plantinga. But there are data worth calling facts, especially objects that correspond to what Locke called simple impressions.
3. Where things get sticky is in the interpretations of facts, the organizations of our sense experiences in our minds, the "unities of consciousness" our minds create out of the simple impressions we have of the world...
Friday, June 08, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
My father passed today.
My father died this morning. I was walking on the beach in Hilton Head, South Carolina in the morning, taking pictures of jellyfish and crabs, conch and watching bottle nose porpoises slowly making their way to breakfast. At home my father had bought his morning coffee and sausage biscuit from McDonalds and sitting down to eat.
The call came from my sister Debbie to pray. He had a pain in his neck and after my Mom rubbed a little salve as was the custom, he moved chairs, and then slumped over. It was about 8:30, about the time I had been calling them in the morning on my way to work.
Three weeks ago we had a premonitory incident on a Sunday and I was deeply afraid I had lost him without much contact since we'd returned from Germany. I must always regret taking my chances to visit him this weekend. We almost made it, but I had almost daily if brief phone conversations with him and mother these last weeks. Stefanie was able to see him in person two weeks ago and Tom/Sophie were able to speak with him on the phone as well.
He made a quick recovery after that spell and had been fairly well since, apart from some sneezing episodes two weekends ago. All four of my sisters had seen him in the last month, including many nephews and his one great granddaughter.
Our turn was this weekend. We were in South Carolina and were coming down Saturday. Debbie's call this morning was clearly more urgent than any before. We were just about back from our morning walk on the beach. A call to my sister Patricia some twenty minutes later made it clear that it didn't look good. They had shocked him three times and were still having trouble getting a rhythm. They were still in the ambulance in front of the house.
A call to Mom about 9:30, and he was at the hospital. She put on a good voice and had stayed home. Patricia had gone. Maybe 10am and Debbie called to say he was gone.
Angie and I went to tell Tom and Sophie. They had quickly packed while I showered but did not have the final word. They were playing Foosball. On the way across the garden of the Marriott Monarch I saw a magnificent blue heron. It was stately and reminded me of my father, a truly great man.
Much of the timing was providential. We were nearby in South Carolina. My wife's sister Teresa was to drive right by Lakeland that very morning and I could ride with her. The funeral will be later this week while we are already here. It was a good day for eternity.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Reflections 7
My Dad's father was quite conservative even for my parents' circles. He and some of my dad's siblings actually broke away from my church when they merged with another group in opposition to what they saw as a move in a "liberal" direction. One of my uncles told my dad that he would pray for his soul if he went with the merger.
Another uncle once didn't let my sisters sing special music because one of them had cut her bangs, and hair cutting was not allowed because of 1 Corinthians 11. When my father first bought a black and white TV, my grandfather didn't come visit us for a long time in protest. That was one of his shaming techniques to show his disapproval. He would give you "a good letting alone."
I don't actually think too badly of him. I think you can be so convinced that someone is wrong that you don't feel threatened by them. Of course I mean people who are not in a position to hurt you politically or physically. I have lived a good deal of my teaching life with deep concern for people who disagree with me who might try to sabotage my livelihood.
It wasn't our way to hold these things against them. In fact, we dressed to standard when we visited. Even though my family remained rather conservative, I didn't experience these "standards" as a major concern for our nuclear family in particular.
As I was saying, one song in particular at camp meeting used to bring me inner turmoil. It went through the days of the weeks and you were supposed to stand when it came to the day of the week when you were "saved." "It was on a Sunday, somebody touched me..." You repeated it three times and then ended the stanza with "... must have been the hand of the Lord." Then it moved on to Monday. When the song came to the day you were saved, you were supposed to stand.
To be "saved" meant to have an experience of conversion. You went from being on your way to hell to being on your way to heaven, if you remained faithful. The experience was preached as a somewhat dramatic moment you would definitely know and remember. The picture was one of high emotion, with probable weeping or shouting or some significant sign of emotion. Sure, sure, somewhere someone said that it didn't have to necessarily be dramatic, but that was the image that seemed most given.
There would be multiple verses of a song as part of an "altar call." The altar was a long series of benches stretching across the front of the "tabernacle," as the camp meeting building for services was called, after the holy sanctuary of the Old Testament. In that sense, the altar at the front I suppose was meant to resemble the Holy of Holies where God's presence was, although I don't remember anyone ever saying that.
Everyone knew the ritual. After each verse of a song like "Just as I Am," the song evangelist would implore all of those to come forward who needed to 1) get saved, 2) get sanctified, or 3) something else relating to the sermon (very unusual though for it to be something other than getting saved or sanctified). There would often be, "This is the last verse." Sometimes it was; sometimes it wasn't.
Sometimes the preaching evangelist would get up between verses and tell a story about someone who didn't come to the altar and then died on their way home from the meeting, only to go into the eternity of hell. You could have written up the liturgy of the altar call the same as any Roman Catholic communion. It was followed every night, every year, ever camp meeting.
As I mentioned, I dreaded the "It was on a Sunday song." At first, it was because I did not have a clear moment to say was the real one when I was saved. Mind you, I asked God to forgive my sins repeatedly. I wanted to stand--who wanted to look like they had never been saved. I didn't know what day it was. I was so glad when they added a final verse, "I don't know what day it was but somebody touched me..."
But then there was guilt about not going forward to the altar. I was quite shy and the thought of walking down the length of the sanctuary to pray was terrifying. I would go outside and pray after the service. Once I went and sat on the bench on the front row after the service. Then I felt guilty for not being totally committed to God. If I was really serious about serving God I would have made myself walk down that long aisle to the front.
And at the front, people would pray for you. They would surround you, maybe lay hands on you. They would raise their voices in prayer for you. One or two would be on the other side of the altar, asking you what you were there for, how you wanted them to pray. It was all horribly terrifying to me.
And some people were altar recidivists. I remember a fellow in my home church--I think he might have later turned out to be gay--who was at the altar it seemed almost every week for a while. He never seemed to be able to find peace. I sympathized with him because I never seemed to have those dramatic emotional moments we were led to expect.
Then there was one Sunday morning, I think it was. My sisters were home to visit, maybe from "Brainerd Indian School" in South Dakota. It must have been in the late 70s. Going up that stairway on the outside of our house I felt a peace. Not a big emotion, but it was enough for me to stand up when the camp meeting song came up.
So much of this scene now seems wrong to me...
Another uncle once didn't let my sisters sing special music because one of them had cut her bangs, and hair cutting was not allowed because of 1 Corinthians 11. When my father first bought a black and white TV, my grandfather didn't come visit us for a long time in protest. That was one of his shaming techniques to show his disapproval. He would give you "a good letting alone."
I don't actually think too badly of him. I think you can be so convinced that someone is wrong that you don't feel threatened by them. Of course I mean people who are not in a position to hurt you politically or physically. I have lived a good deal of my teaching life with deep concern for people who disagree with me who might try to sabotage my livelihood.
It wasn't our way to hold these things against them. In fact, we dressed to standard when we visited. Even though my family remained rather conservative, I didn't experience these "standards" as a major concern for our nuclear family in particular.
As I was saying, one song in particular at camp meeting used to bring me inner turmoil. It went through the days of the weeks and you were supposed to stand when it came to the day of the week when you were "saved." "It was on a Sunday, somebody touched me..." You repeated it three times and then ended the stanza with "... must have been the hand of the Lord." Then it moved on to Monday. When the song came to the day you were saved, you were supposed to stand.
To be "saved" meant to have an experience of conversion. You went from being on your way to hell to being on your way to heaven, if you remained faithful. The experience was preached as a somewhat dramatic moment you would definitely know and remember. The picture was one of high emotion, with probable weeping or shouting or some significant sign of emotion. Sure, sure, somewhere someone said that it didn't have to necessarily be dramatic, but that was the image that seemed most given.
There would be multiple verses of a song as part of an "altar call." The altar was a long series of benches stretching across the front of the "tabernacle," as the camp meeting building for services was called, after the holy sanctuary of the Old Testament. In that sense, the altar at the front I suppose was meant to resemble the Holy of Holies where God's presence was, although I don't remember anyone ever saying that.
Everyone knew the ritual. After each verse of a song like "Just as I Am," the song evangelist would implore all of those to come forward who needed to 1) get saved, 2) get sanctified, or 3) something else relating to the sermon (very unusual though for it to be something other than getting saved or sanctified). There would often be, "This is the last verse." Sometimes it was; sometimes it wasn't.
Sometimes the preaching evangelist would get up between verses and tell a story about someone who didn't come to the altar and then died on their way home from the meeting, only to go into the eternity of hell. You could have written up the liturgy of the altar call the same as any Roman Catholic communion. It was followed every night, every year, ever camp meeting.
As I mentioned, I dreaded the "It was on a Sunday song." At first, it was because I did not have a clear moment to say was the real one when I was saved. Mind you, I asked God to forgive my sins repeatedly. I wanted to stand--who wanted to look like they had never been saved. I didn't know what day it was. I was so glad when they added a final verse, "I don't know what day it was but somebody touched me..."
But then there was guilt about not going forward to the altar. I was quite shy and the thought of walking down the length of the sanctuary to pray was terrifying. I would go outside and pray after the service. Once I went and sat on the bench on the front row after the service. Then I felt guilty for not being totally committed to God. If I was really serious about serving God I would have made myself walk down that long aisle to the front.
And at the front, people would pray for you. They would surround you, maybe lay hands on you. They would raise their voices in prayer for you. One or two would be on the other side of the altar, asking you what you were there for, how you wanted them to pray. It was all horribly terrifying to me.
And some people were altar recidivists. I remember a fellow in my home church--I think he might have later turned out to be gay--who was at the altar it seemed almost every week for a while. He never seemed to be able to find peace. I sympathized with him because I never seemed to have those dramatic emotional moments we were led to expect.
Then there was one Sunday morning, I think it was. My sisters were home to visit, maybe from "Brainerd Indian School" in South Dakota. It must have been in the late 70s. Going up that stairway on the outside of our house I felt a peace. Not a big emotion, but it was enough for me to stand up when the camp meeting song came up.
So much of this scene now seems wrong to me...
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Reflections 6
To me, the most coherent view sees God in relational terms. God knows us and wants to rescue us from our alienation. He wants to be reconciled with us. He wants to be in relationship with us.
Relationships can be broken. Any violation of our faithfulness to God damages our relationship to God, not on his side but on ours. We cannot be unloving and not create distance between us and God. A person who is unfaithful in a marriage or friendship cannot be as close to their partner or friend, especially if their friend knows their faithlessness.
But relationships only break instantly with the most major of infidelities. God will take us back if we can bring ourselves to go back--not always possible because our hearts become hardened like cement and we cannot move them any more. We can still move with smaller acts of infidelity, but they can accumulate like plaque in an artery. Eventually we will have a heart attack and the relationship may not survive.
At least these are thoughts I had later. The climate of preaching that led me to fear that I would fry with the smallest of infractions was just plain wrong. It was built off a shallow understanding of God's love, not to mention of relationships. It made God into a poor excuse for a human spouse, let alone a divine one.
The preaching I grew up with was also preoccupied with spiritual events, benchmarks you needed to check off a list. I remember in particular one song they sometimes sang at camp meeting in Frankfort, Indiana. Some families went to the beach or the mountains when they took their vacation. We went to camp meeting or church district conference or, every four years, to church general conference.
Frankfort, Indiana was probably the navel of my childhood universe. Every year at the beginning of August we made pilgrimage back to Indiana. Frankfort was where my mother had largely grown up. There was a Bible college there, Frankfort Pilgrim College.
My mother's father, Harry Shepherd, had taught there most of my mother's life except in the years of the Great Depression. In those years he had pastored and taught at Bible colleges in North Carolina () and Kentucky (Kingswood). Then he had made his way back to southern Indiana pastoring () before finally finishing out his career at Frankfort.
Over the years he taught (dispensational) prophecy, Latin, calculus, and I suspect any number of other classes. He was a graduate of the 190* class of Wabash College and had played baseball there. He was quite a bit older than my grandmother, Verna, and she was his second wife after his first wife passed. Born in 1882, he and his two sisters were orphaned after his father finally succumbed to injuries he sustained in the Civil War. I never met him, since he died about three years before I was born.
So my mother had grown up roaming the campus of Frankfort Pilgrim College. She attended both high school and college there and became quite a good pianist. My three oldest sisters went to college there, although my third oldest sister Sharon had to finish her work at Hobe Sound Bible College in south Florida when the Wesleyan Church closed Frankfort.
But the camp meeting continued there and, although the grounds were sold in 2010, it continues even today. I was born in Indiana, although my father's job took him to Florida in 1971. So while we lived in Ft. Lauderdale, we remained strongly connected to Indiana.
I was born in Indianapolis at Methodist Hospital. At the time we lived on the north side of town, just south of Carmel. My Dad's parents lived in the middle of Indianapolis. My Dad's father, Dorsey, had been a grocery store owner and a church planter. During the Depression he sold his store and worked as a butcher. He was handy with an engine and in general quite unlike me, except perhaps that he was the type of person to speak his mind. That side of me only comes out in writing.
My Dad's father was quite conservative even for my parents' circles...
Relationships can be broken. Any violation of our faithfulness to God damages our relationship to God, not on his side but on ours. We cannot be unloving and not create distance between us and God. A person who is unfaithful in a marriage or friendship cannot be as close to their partner or friend, especially if their friend knows their faithlessness.
But relationships only break instantly with the most major of infidelities. God will take us back if we can bring ourselves to go back--not always possible because our hearts become hardened like cement and we cannot move them any more. We can still move with smaller acts of infidelity, but they can accumulate like plaque in an artery. Eventually we will have a heart attack and the relationship may not survive.
At least these are thoughts I had later. The climate of preaching that led me to fear that I would fry with the smallest of infractions was just plain wrong. It was built off a shallow understanding of God's love, not to mention of relationships. It made God into a poor excuse for a human spouse, let alone a divine one.
The preaching I grew up with was also preoccupied with spiritual events, benchmarks you needed to check off a list. I remember in particular one song they sometimes sang at camp meeting in Frankfort, Indiana. Some families went to the beach or the mountains when they took their vacation. We went to camp meeting or church district conference or, every four years, to church general conference.
Frankfort, Indiana was probably the navel of my childhood universe. Every year at the beginning of August we made pilgrimage back to Indiana. Frankfort was where my mother had largely grown up. There was a Bible college there, Frankfort Pilgrim College.
My mother's father, Harry Shepherd, had taught there most of my mother's life except in the years of the Great Depression. In those years he had pastored and taught at Bible colleges in North Carolina () and Kentucky (Kingswood). Then he had made his way back to southern Indiana pastoring () before finally finishing out his career at Frankfort.
Over the years he taught (dispensational) prophecy, Latin, calculus, and I suspect any number of other classes. He was a graduate of the 190* class of Wabash College and had played baseball there. He was quite a bit older than my grandmother, Verna, and she was his second wife after his first wife passed. Born in 1882, he and his two sisters were orphaned after his father finally succumbed to injuries he sustained in the Civil War. I never met him, since he died about three years before I was born.
So my mother had grown up roaming the campus of Frankfort Pilgrim College. She attended both high school and college there and became quite a good pianist. My three oldest sisters went to college there, although my third oldest sister Sharon had to finish her work at Hobe Sound Bible College in south Florida when the Wesleyan Church closed Frankfort.
But the camp meeting continued there and, although the grounds were sold in 2010, it continues even today. I was born in Indiana, although my father's job took him to Florida in 1971. So while we lived in Ft. Lauderdale, we remained strongly connected to Indiana.
I was born in Indianapolis at Methodist Hospital. At the time we lived on the north side of town, just south of Carmel. My Dad's parents lived in the middle of Indianapolis. My Dad's father, Dorsey, had been a grocery store owner and a church planter. During the Depression he sold his store and worked as a butcher. He was handy with an engine and in general quite unlike me, except perhaps that he was the type of person to speak his mind. That side of me only comes out in writing.
My Dad's father was quite conservative even for my parents' circles...
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Reflections 5
... continued from last Sunday
____________
I have often thought that I might not have struggled with my faith so much if I had grown up with a form of faith that was a little more informed and defensible. When I later studied the Bible and theology, I found myself torn, on the one hand, between loyalty to my childhood faith and those who preached it, and, on the other hand, to truths that became increasingly obvious beyond reasonable doubt. I found myself in completely unnecessary faith crises for no reason whatsoever.
I think the categories of fundamentalism can remain comfortable for a lifetime if you are never exposed to the simple questions or situations that deconstruct it so easily. Then again, there are others who have a strange ability to live with possible explanations rather than probable ones. Perhaps I too might have remained quite satisfied with my childhood fundamentalism if I had become a doctor or a scientist of some sort. There are some questions you just don't ask when you live in a particular paradigm. But once those questions are honestly asked, it is only a matter of time before they unraveled.
But I am getting ahead of myself. I'll have recourse later to give my thoughts on raptures and a rigid sense of what experiences Christians are supposed to have. For now, I want to clarify what a bad concept of God I had in my bones as a child. Mind you, it was not something you could have talked through with me, I don't think. I was in the grip of an irrational fear.
I saw a video in seminary that summed it up well. God was a cowboy to me, a policeman with an itchy trigger finger. He was a "one sin you're out" kind of God. If you died or the rapture happened in the ten seconds between a sin and your repentance, you were toast.
Suffice it to say, this is a horrible picture of God. It pictures God as a legalist, not a truly loving God. I am more loving than this god. In fact almost any average person on the street gets higher grades than this god for love. No doubt there are a lot of people in prison, maybe even some murderers, who come out more loving.
And it is an immature picture of God. It is a god who loves rules for their own sake and gets really ticked off when people break them. He's an insecure god, who cannot handle any infraction of his rules.
If the "eternal security" of some Baptists would allow a "Christian" to commit murder and still go to heaven, my childhood experience was one of continual insecurity. Yet if the word "love" is meaningful at all in relation to God, it surely means that he wants us to make it. And I was raised to believe that he wanted everyone to make it, that the only reason anyone wouldn't make it would be their own doing.
I have also come to reject prevailing ideas about what it means to say that God is a God of justice. So many Christians seem to treat God's justice as something to which he himself is a slave. "I'd really like to have mercy on you," God might say, "but I have to follow the rules."
But doesn't God make the rules? I can believe that God exercises justice for our good. I can believe that God exercises justice for the collective good. I can believe that God exercises justice when a person is beyond redemption. I cannot believe he is just because he has to be or because he just can't hold his temper when people offend his honor.
To me, the most coherent view sees God in relational terms. God knows us and wants to rescue us from our alienation. He wants to be reconciled with us. He wants to be in relationship with us...
____________
I have often thought that I might not have struggled with my faith so much if I had grown up with a form of faith that was a little more informed and defensible. When I later studied the Bible and theology, I found myself torn, on the one hand, between loyalty to my childhood faith and those who preached it, and, on the other hand, to truths that became increasingly obvious beyond reasonable doubt. I found myself in completely unnecessary faith crises for no reason whatsoever.
I think the categories of fundamentalism can remain comfortable for a lifetime if you are never exposed to the simple questions or situations that deconstruct it so easily. Then again, there are others who have a strange ability to live with possible explanations rather than probable ones. Perhaps I too might have remained quite satisfied with my childhood fundamentalism if I had become a doctor or a scientist of some sort. There are some questions you just don't ask when you live in a particular paradigm. But once those questions are honestly asked, it is only a matter of time before they unraveled.
But I am getting ahead of myself. I'll have recourse later to give my thoughts on raptures and a rigid sense of what experiences Christians are supposed to have. For now, I want to clarify what a bad concept of God I had in my bones as a child. Mind you, it was not something you could have talked through with me, I don't think. I was in the grip of an irrational fear.
I saw a video in seminary that summed it up well. God was a cowboy to me, a policeman with an itchy trigger finger. He was a "one sin you're out" kind of God. If you died or the rapture happened in the ten seconds between a sin and your repentance, you were toast.
Suffice it to say, this is a horrible picture of God. It pictures God as a legalist, not a truly loving God. I am more loving than this god. In fact almost any average person on the street gets higher grades than this god for love. No doubt there are a lot of people in prison, maybe even some murderers, who come out more loving.
And it is an immature picture of God. It is a god who loves rules for their own sake and gets really ticked off when people break them. He's an insecure god, who cannot handle any infraction of his rules.
If the "eternal security" of some Baptists would allow a "Christian" to commit murder and still go to heaven, my childhood experience was one of continual insecurity. Yet if the word "love" is meaningful at all in relation to God, it surely means that he wants us to make it. And I was raised to believe that he wanted everyone to make it, that the only reason anyone wouldn't make it would be their own doing.
I have also come to reject prevailing ideas about what it means to say that God is a God of justice. So many Christians seem to treat God's justice as something to which he himself is a slave. "I'd really like to have mercy on you," God might say, "but I have to follow the rules."
But doesn't God make the rules? I can believe that God exercises justice for our good. I can believe that God exercises justice for the collective good. I can believe that God exercises justice when a person is beyond redemption. I cannot believe he is just because he has to be or because he just can't hold his temper when people offend his honor.
To me, the most coherent view sees God in relational terms. God knows us and wants to rescue us from our alienation. He wants to be reconciled with us. He wants to be in relationship with us...
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