Satan as Internet Troll

I'm joining up with a few other writers this year as I blog the lectionary. This is a cross post from our new blog: Til the Candles Burn Down.

The Gospel lesson for this week is Mark 4:1-11, which you can read here. It occurs to me that Satan is acting a little bit like an internet troll in this passage. He's purposely putting a shallow spin on things, trying to move away from the deeper truths that can transform us to shallow details that are not really the point, in order to goad Jesus into abandoning his mission.

I can almost imagine their conversation happening on Facebook:

Satan: Okay, you say you’re the Son of God, so prove it.
 Jesus: Prove it?
Satan: Yeah. Jump off the Empire State Building so I can watch the angels save you.
Jesus: Um…it doesn’t work like that?
Satan: Yeah. I thought so. Nice try, loser. If you’re the Son of God, so’s my cat.

Or something. But of course, the exchange wouldn’t happen on Facebook. Everybody knows Jesus does a Facebook fast during Lent.

I don’t mean to be unduly flip. It’s just that I have traditionally had a hard time placing this story in my life. I’ve probably read or heard this account 30 or 40 times, maybe more. And I’m almost always thinking something along the lines of “Oh, this story is to show us how exceptional Jesus is. When he goes off into the wilderness, he’s so important that the devil himself goes to try to thwart everything.”
I don’t usually think of those temptations as particularly relevant to me—after all, I’ve never been able to turn stones to bread, and I’ve never had any experiences that persuade me to try the Jumping From a High Place So Angels Will Catch You And Gently Lift You To The Ground Without A Scratch thing either.

But it does occur to me that if I try to get below the surface of the three temptations that are mentioned, I’ve managed to give in to all of them. Because really, what is Satan saying with his symbolic suggestions? I don’t think it’s really about bread. I think the temptations are stand-ins for attitudes that put us at odds with God’s will and authority in our own lives. (And if you’re thinking, “Well, duh,” here, you’re right. I can be terribly obtuse about things that have always been obvious to everyone else.)

First, we worry that God won’t take care of us (the bread). Second, we recklessly abandon our responsibility for our own lives, throwing up our hands and saying, God’s in control so there’s nothing I can do (the cliff diving). And third, we decide for ourselves what God should want from our lives, and start pursuing that to the exclusion of all other concerns (the Satan-worship).

I’d even go so far as to say that these aren’t three different temptations at all, but the same one, presented in three different ways. Essentially, I think it boils down to keeping things in the right perspective. So, when I’m given over to worry, I need to remember that I’m not the one in charge here. And when I’m overwhelmed by the enormity of what my life seems to be requiring of me, I need to remember to stay engaged. And when I look around me and see people who seem to be doing this whole life thing better than me (for me, this mostly comes up around the wonderful people I know who have actually managed to publish their novels), I need to find my perspective again.

It’s tough, because that perspective sits somewhere in the middle of the first two concerns: I belong to God, and he will take care of me, but I need to act on his behalf out in the world—he’s not going to do it all for me.

I think we all find “somewhere in the middle” a hard place to be. How do you know when you need to be trusting God to provide, and when you need to be baking bread? When do you, like Kierkegaard said, step off the cliff in the fog, and when do hang back and wait because you’re on treacherous terrain?

At the extremes, the rules are clearer, and there are teams to join. There are the die-hard Republicans and the Bernie or Bust Democrats. There are the religion-is-destroying-the-world atheists and the my-denomination-is-the-only-one-that-gets-it-right Christians (or Muslims or *insert any religion here*). Anti-vaxxer? You’ve got a team. Anti-anti-vaxxer? You’ll find lots of friends.

But subtlety doesn’t lend itself to tribalism. Positions that are complicated and nuanced are hard to sell to the masses. There’s always some rabble-rouser happy to shut a person down:

“Oh, so you believe that God will take care of you, huh? Well, then, he won’t mind if you make yourself some bread, will he? Oh, it’s not as simple as that? I guess God was for bread before he was against it.”

It doesn’t matter that the rabble-rouser is purposely misunderstanding. It doesn’t matter that God knows each of us intimately, individually, and without a need for sweeping generalization. The world will always try to section us off, and claim us for itself. It shouts, Getting children vaccinated is the Most Important Thing! Equal rights for everyone is the Most Important Thing! Feeding the hungry is the Most Important Thing! Stopping abortions is the Most Important Thing! Trusting God to provide the bread is the Most Important Thing! Working for God in the world is the Most Important Thing!

No.

If this morning’s Gospel lesson says anything, it says that keeping a God-centered perspective is the most important thing. So I’ll be hanging out here somewhere in the middle, making bread when God provides the means to buy flour and yeast. I believe it’s where we all end up. And I’m glad. After all, we’re on the same team.

Back to the Garden

Joel 2:1-2,12-17
or Isaiah 58:1-12
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
Psalm 103 or 103:8-14

Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the thongs of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up quickly;
your vindicator shall go before you,
the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer;
you shall cry for help, and he will say, Here I am.
If you remove the yoke from among you,
the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,
if you offer your food to the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,
then your light shall rise in the darkness
and your gloom be like the noonday.
The LORD will guide you continually,
and satisfy your needs in parched places,
and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
like a spring of water,
whose waters never fail.
Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to live in.


Share your bread with the hungry. Bring the homeless poor into your house. When you see the naked, cover them. Don't hide from your own people.

Isaiah isn't asking for much, is he? Just a version of radical generosity that requires us to care nothing for security, sustenance, and comfort. The kind that has us buying clothing and sharing our own food and homes with people in need. This is the kind of call that feels so completely unrealistic that it's easy to dismiss as the product of a different time, or the words of an idealist with no part of himself in the real world. It feels completely impossible to me.

In fact, here's a story to show just how impossible it is.

A few years ago, I was walking on the bike path that winds through our town, and I met a woman who was backpacking across the country. We got to talking, and I said that if she wanted a shower, she could come by our place. She said no to the shower, but said she was looking for a place to camp, if she could use our yard. I said sure, gave her our address, and went on my way. When I got home, I mentioned to Jim that this woman might be coming by, and I was overcome with anxiety: what if she was crazy? What if she was a thief? What if she took me up on that shower after all, and then held me and the children at gunpoint?

But I liked this woman--I had enjoyed our conversation, and she seemed really cool. I knew that the odds were excellent that she was just a woman, backpacking across the country, looking for a place to sleep for the night. But my anxiety at having a complete stranger in our yard was huge. I know that a lot of the stress came from the responsibility I feel to the children, and not putting them in harm's way--if it had just been Jim and me, we probably wouldn't have given it much thought. Or maybe I would have freaked out just as much--because I certainly didn't think it was any big deal when I was inviting her to shower in our house. It was only after, when my imagination started spinning all kinds of dire consequences, that I started to worry. I have a big problem with the unknown.

As it turned out, to my relief, she didn't show up. She asked around, but couldn't find our street. I know this, because I received a postcard a week or two later, thanking me for the offer and explaining that she couldn't find the street, but she didn't want me to think she'd been rude. So basically, I got a thank you note for something I wasn't even able to do. That's some crazy, scary behavior there, right?

So, yeah, bringing the homeless poor into my house? Not likely to happen here. I mean, I know people who have done this, but in my mind, they are exceptions and heroes. We don't live in a culture of that level of openness any more. Maybe we never did. I mean, maybe this was a crazy radical statement even for Isaiah, who, let's remember, was primarily addressing himself to the priests and politicians--the people who had the power to loose the bonds of injustice and let the oppressed go free.

But I have been grappling, lately, with how perfectly ungenerous I am. There are a few people in my life who really are in need. Real, desperate, maybe-not-going-to-eat today need. I help when I feel I can. But I don't always feel I can.

I worry.

I worry that their needs are so big and that I'm so powerless, that the need will just grow to soak up and overwhelm anything I can do to help. I worry that if I help out, I'm just making it easier not to deal with the issues that led to the bad situation they're in. Or that I'm putting our kids' future or our future at risk if I help too much now. I worry about putting a strain on my marriage if I try to help in a way that Jim disagrees with. Sometimes, I worry that I'm being played--and that might be the thing that would bother me the most. I don't want to be anybody's fool.

Fear and worry keep me from doing what is right. They keep me from knowing what right is.

I can hide in perfectionism and modern psychology and tough love and tell myself that this is not my problem, that I need to take care of my family first, that I have a right to enjoy what we've worked hard for. Or I can take a radical leap, and open myself up to being taken advantage of, and recognize that none of the things I'm trying to protect--our money, our home, our children, my life--none of those things have ever really belonged to me anyway.

If there is a God, it all belongs to God. If there is not a God, it all belongs to the universe. Either way, I have no more right to a warm home and a full belly than anyone else on earth. If it comes to my attention that someone else needs what I have, how can I be so cruel to cling to what I have and keep it for my own? I can and I do. Constantly.

But what I'm clinging to is dust. This is the good news of Ash Wednesday. Astronomers and theologians agree on this: we are dust becoming dust. And if everything is dust, what is left to protect? I've been clinging to dust, when I could just as easily let it fly away in the wind.

Reflections on standing up for mothers.

I have always had a problem with the platitude spouted by everyone from Oprah to the president to principals and pastors, that motherhood is the toughest job in the world. I mean, don't get me wrong, motherhood is hard. It demands a near-constant turning from what the self wants to a much louder, needier, and more demanding self. And it's relentless--even if you try to get a break from it, something can come up--the school nurse calls, or worse, the police, and you have to leave your cup of coffee, or your massage therapist, or your life's work, to deal with one of the jobs of motherhood. But it's not the hardest job in the world. You know how I can tell? Here is a list of jobs I would never want to take on because of the hard work and living sacrifice they would require: President of the United States, firefighter, brain surgeon, prostitute. I would rather be a mother than any of those things. It is not a complete list.

In a lot of places, the church takes this sentiment, and puts a painful twist on it, telling women that God's highest calling for their lives is motherhood. Fortunately, I don't have a ton of direct experience with this evil load of facile crap. The idea is just so extremely wrong that I think I would laugh out loud if I ever heard it from the pulpit. I mean, being a mother definitely enriches my life, and hopefully, if I do it right, the world, but I'd like to think that the work I've done before and during my time as a mother has made an impact beyond that of my family. I'm amused by the idea that the work done by Madeline L'Engle, Dorothy Day, Sojourer Truth, Cady Stanton, Julain of Norwich, Hilary Clinton and Gloria Steinham could be somehow secondary to their roles (or lack of roles) as mothers.

So I was sympathetic when a friend shared a blog post on Mother's Day and church. It's an open letter to pastors by Amy Young. You can read it here.  In the article, Young points out that Mother's Day can be hard for some people in the church. When women are asked to stand, there are some who can't stand, even though they want to. And, while I sympathize with women who are struggling with trying to have children, whose children are dead or dying, and everyone else for whom the issue of motherhood is painful for some reason, I think this letter tries to do the worst thing possible to deal with the problem.

This letter is a version of a new genre of essay born of our blog-all-about-it environment: It's the blog post that effectively says, "There's something about me that makes me special and sad. And I'm not alone. Here's how I think you should change your behavior in order to make me feel better." The great thing about these pieces is that they give people a window into pain, hurt, and struggles that are inaccessible to us. They give us an idea of what others dealing with issue X have gone through so that when our friends tell us they are dealing with issue X, we have a bit of a head start on knowing what they need.

Of course, the big problem with these essays is a societal one. It can seem like everyone who is encountering a difficulty now feels they have a right to delineate all the ways that insensitive people have inadvertently rubbed salt into their wounds, and to demand that we start considering that the person in line with us at the grocery store might deserve special kid-glove treatment because she Has It Rough. If I read enough of these articles, I start fantasizing about staging virtual cage matches, where I pit New Family in Town against Mother of a Kid with Acne. A series of elimination rounds  would give us all a definitive order of deference to show the acquaintances in our lives (eg., peanut allergy trumps concussion victim, but aspergers beats them both).

The bigger problem with these articles is the same as their strength: they make us feel like we have a head start on knowing what people need. Most of the time, our friends need to have the chance to tell us themselves about how they feel about their particular pain. They need it because telling our stories is a big part of how we heal. We all need people who will sit and listen for as long as it takes, people who will hear our hurt and tell us that we're right, it's not fair, to cry and mourn with us, and then ask us what we're going to do about it.

Another reason that our friends need to be the ones to tell us what it's like to be them is that they aren't just feeling hurt. Friends who have lost children, struggled with infertility, given children up for adoption, are feeling a lot more than hurt when they keep their butts in the pews on Mother's Day. Some are feeling guilty, some are feeling grief, some are feeling jealous or angry or bitter or resentful, and they need to be able to tell someone about all of that. Confession is a sacrament for a reason.

Young says that in her thirties, there was a Mother's Day when it got personal for her.

I don’t know how others saw me, but I felt dehumanized, gutted as a woman. Real women stood, empty shells sat. I do not normally feel this way. I do not like feeling this way. I want no woman to ever feel this way in church again.

I certainly don't want people to feel dehumanized at church, but I don't agree with this sentiment at all. Church is exactly the place where people should feel like gutted, empty shells. Because ultimately, that is what we all are--every single one of us feels broken and empty and useless. So where but church should we to go to confront by all the ways that God has let us down in our lives? Isn't church exactly the place we should be when we're naming our pain and stuggling to make sense of it?
 I'm not saying that we should go out of our ways to make people feel worthless. I'm just saying that if asking a group of people to stand up can bring that out in a person, the feelings were already there to begin with. The situation just brought them to light. And just because that's a painful thing does not mean it's a bad thing. Pain is very useful for showing people the places that need healing. In my experience, church is excellent for excavating the painful places that need healing, on pretty much every Sunday.

I don't think removing the annual "can all mothers stand" for the sake of those who have pain around the issue of motherhood is any more appropriate than not honoring veterans on Veterans Day for the sake of war widows in the congregation.
 
You know who can't stand on Mother's Day? My mother. She had polio when she was a girl, and now she's in a wheelchair. (If my brother-in-law ever found himself at a gathering asking the fathers to stand, he wouldn't be able to either. He's a quadriplegic.) I haven't asked them, so I don't know, but I suspect that every time people are asked to stand, they are reminded of their otherness. Should we all stop standing for the pledge or kneeling in prayer during church because it reminds the wheelchair-bound that they're not like everyone else?

In the second part of the article, Young suggests that we honor all the ways women interact with the issue of motherhood. Even if pastors do manage to get through her exhaustive list there are still people who will end up marginalized: women who have had abortions, transgendered women who don't even have the option to get pregnant, and single fathers, who have had to do much of their families' mothering are still left sitting in the pews with their own particular pains and sorrows. I had serious issues with post-partum depression and an emergency C-section in which I'm told I was in danger of dying. She didn't even mention those issues. And even if they were added now that I've brought them to light, the list still couldn't be exhaustive. As much as we try to break the world down into affinity groups and awareness days, the world insists on being populated by individuals with individual stories to tell. No matter how hard we try, someone is always going to be reminded of her brokenness, poked in the sore spot of her heart.

This is a good thing.

It is part of the burden we bear from being alive. We all have these burdens, some of us more intensely than others. It's not a reason to stop celebrating people for the wonderful things they do--if anything, it's a reason to continue. If all we did was pussyfoot around, trying to avoid everyone's psychic burns and bruises, nobody could ever get anywhere.

The solution to the church's problem of the women who secretly grieve on Mother's Day is to know who those women are. Not the types of women who suffer, but the individuals.

If we are living our mission in the world, we will have relationships with the people we sit next to at church. We will know them and their stories well enough that we squeeze their arms while the mothers are standing. We will take a moment during the peace to say we have been thinking about them, hoping that this time of year isn't too difficult. We will reach out to them during the week and make them feel cared for and loved. We will take the time to help them feel like God is completing his good work in them, as they are, right now--and we can do that no matter who is standing up and who is sitting down.