“Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile
And she will be loved”
---Maroon 5, “She Will Be Loved”
Lowering her eyes, the young lady, still a teenager, turned away, trying to conceal the evidence: But it was unmistakably there. The marks on her face were painful reminders; she had indeed become another girl with a broken smile.
Like thousands of other victims of domestic violence, her bruises would heal, but the scars on her heart would last a lifetime.
The statistics on women’s abuse are shocking: Nearly one in four women in the United States reports experiencing violence by a current or former spouse or boyfriend at some point in her life; 84% of spouse abuse victims are women; and on average, more than three women a day are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends in the United States.
Apparently, patterns of domestic violence frequently begin early in a woman’s life. Females ages 16-24 are almost three times more vulnerable to intimate partner violence than any other age group. And nearly one-half of adult sex offenders report committing their first sexual offense prior to the age of 18.
And just in case you’re wondering, it’s not just a heterosexual problem. In a study of gay, lesbian, and bisexual adolescents, youths involved in same-sex dating are just as likely to experience dating violence as youths involved in opposite sex dating.
That’s why the news that pop artists Rihanna and Chris Brown are releasing new duets is so disturbing. It’s sending a wrong message to their impressionable followers. “Domestic violence is just another new normal,” their actions seem to indicate. “It’s not perfect, but it’s okay: Learn to live with it,” the unspoken message appears to convey.
No one should learn to live with domestic violence. Until that problem is resolved, the relationship should be placed on hold.
Three years ago we viewed that leaked photograph of Rihanna’s bruised and bloodied face, her smile broken by the savage blows from the hands of her then boyfriend, Chris Brown. It’s difficult to get that image out of the mind, no matter how attractive their new music may be.
Of course, Chris Brown deserves another chance. Maybe he has been transformed. It’s certainly possible. Perhaps he has worked through his anger issues and has come to terms with how he can better control himself.
But we have reason to doubt. Only last March he reportedly lost his temper, yelled at a TV producer and shattered a window in the green room during an interview on Good Morning America.
And there are reports alleging that the assault three years ago was not the first time Brown and Rihanna had a physical fight.
Patterns can be broken, but it’s not easy, and it usually doesn’t happen quickly, if it happens at all.
Why then would Rihanna, or anyone, even think about reconciling with an abusing partner? Rihanna herself sang the provocative lyrics with Eminem in the 2010 song, “Love the Way You Lie,” about a woman who keeps believing a man who promises he’ll never hurt her again. “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn/Well that’s alright cause I like the way it hurts,” Rihanna sang.
“We can never ignore the fact that many abused women actually love the men who hit them because the men who hit them don’t always hit them,” thestar.com quotes Dr. Walter DeKeseredy as saying. DeKeseredy, professor of criminology at the University of Ontario Institute of Technology, has been researching domestic violence for 25 years
It’s a dangerous cycle that can result in death. The same week that Rihanna and Chris were rumored to be reuniting, former University of Virginia lacrosse player George Huguely V was found guilty of second-degree murder in the 2010 death of his ex-girlfriend. Theirs was reportedly an abusive relationship.
Rihanna and Chris Brown aren’t the problem; they are only representative of a violent subculture that is increasingly growing more and more calloused to violence in many forms.
They deserve better, if only they would demand it.
As the young lady, still a teenager, walked away, maybe she hopes she will find love, or that love will find her, a true love that will not only heal a broken smile but unbreak a broken heart in a place where she can stay awhile, a safe place, a place where love can blossom, a place where she will be loved. Truly.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?
His lips quivered as tears moistened his eyes. But maybe that was just my imagination.
No, I could have sworn I saw his lower lip quivering. And no mistaking, I heard his voice cracking just a bit.
It was all there---the suppression of grief, the futile effort to hold the emotions in check, the chin lowered to the chest---exposed. His mournful tale has been told by others for eons: the friend who disappointed, a relationship destroyed, the future uncertain.
And as he sulked away, dissatisfied with explanations, I couldn’t help but hear Jimmy Ruffin singing his 1966 Motown hit, “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?”
And maybe Mick Jagger too, if not answering Ruffin’s question, at least offering hollow consolation to the brokenhearted: “You can't always get what you want/But if you try sometimes/well you might find/You get what you need.”
Unfortunately, there’s usually an enormous stretch between getting what you want and accepting what you need. Broken relationships can pain the heart, sear the emotions, and tear asunder an otherwise intact character.
Some relationships are unhealthy and even toxic. It’s not always easy and often takes courage to walk away from an abusive relationship, regardless of whether the abuse is verbally or physically administered.
And then some relationships end because of disappointment in the people involved. Sometimes friendships end abruptly; other times they die ever so slowly. Some can be repaired; more often, they remain severed.
How can we weather the storms of a broken relationship and at least allow for the possibility of healing?
Here are some ABC’S for a fractured relationship:
Admit to your part for any damaged emotions. Readily claim responsibility for your mistakes in the relationship. Shirking accountability stymies further personal growth. Is it remotely possible that you are not perfect and that the other person may not be totally wrong? Even if it is not feasible or appropriate to speak personally with the offended person, evaluating and admitting, if only to yourself, your own shortcomings will make fruitful relationships more likely in the future.
Be your better self. Rather that descending to the lowest common denominator of raw emotion verbalized in hurtful words, expressed in unkind actions, and enacted in retributive behavior patterns, be the best you can be. Rise above the flack.
Compassion is best expressed in the action of one four-letter word: L-O-V-E. Try sensing how the other person might feel. Rarely is anyone totally base. At least try to imagine the loss they might be experiencing. Restoration may not be advisable, but love in some form might be available. A compassionate heart comes as we walk through our own experiences of pain and loneliness.
Henri Nouwen spoke of this loneliness and how embracing it can become part of our journey towards healing hurt emotions. In his essay, “Stay with your Pain,” he wrote: “It is not easy to stay with your loneliness. The temptation is to nurse your pain or to escape into fantasies about people who will take it away. But when you can acknowledge your loneliness in a safe, contained place, you make your pain available for God's healing.”
What then becomes of the broken hearted who may not get what they want but what they need? It all depends on whether they allow their open wounds to be immersed in the healing waters of God’s grace.
That healing may not come all at once, but it ever so surely flows to those who venture reconciliation with God, themselves, and others. “I am the Lord who heals you,” (Exodus 15:26), God reminded the wounded nation of Israel.
It’s in the midst of the brokenness and strife that we may find some kind of peace of mind, maybe--- for after all, if life is to be lived, it must be lived in the midst of the failed relationships, forced alienation, and damaged emotions of brokenhearted people. If peace can’t be found there, it won’t be found--- for the world of the brokenhearted is the world we live in.
And what becomes of the brokenhearted is what becomes of us.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
No, I could have sworn I saw his lower lip quivering. And no mistaking, I heard his voice cracking just a bit.
It was all there---the suppression of grief, the futile effort to hold the emotions in check, the chin lowered to the chest---exposed. His mournful tale has been told by others for eons: the friend who disappointed, a relationship destroyed, the future uncertain.
And as he sulked away, dissatisfied with explanations, I couldn’t help but hear Jimmy Ruffin singing his 1966 Motown hit, “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?”
And maybe Mick Jagger too, if not answering Ruffin’s question, at least offering hollow consolation to the brokenhearted: “You can't always get what you want/But if you try sometimes/well you might find/You get what you need.”
Unfortunately, there’s usually an enormous stretch between getting what you want and accepting what you need. Broken relationships can pain the heart, sear the emotions, and tear asunder an otherwise intact character.
Some relationships are unhealthy and even toxic. It’s not always easy and often takes courage to walk away from an abusive relationship, regardless of whether the abuse is verbally or physically administered.
And then some relationships end because of disappointment in the people involved. Sometimes friendships end abruptly; other times they die ever so slowly. Some can be repaired; more often, they remain severed.
How can we weather the storms of a broken relationship and at least allow for the possibility of healing?
Here are some ABC’S for a fractured relationship:
Admit to your part for any damaged emotions. Readily claim responsibility for your mistakes in the relationship. Shirking accountability stymies further personal growth. Is it remotely possible that you are not perfect and that the other person may not be totally wrong? Even if it is not feasible or appropriate to speak personally with the offended person, evaluating and admitting, if only to yourself, your own shortcomings will make fruitful relationships more likely in the future.
Be your better self. Rather that descending to the lowest common denominator of raw emotion verbalized in hurtful words, expressed in unkind actions, and enacted in retributive behavior patterns, be the best you can be. Rise above the flack.
Compassion is best expressed in the action of one four-letter word: L-O-V-E. Try sensing how the other person might feel. Rarely is anyone totally base. At least try to imagine the loss they might be experiencing. Restoration may not be advisable, but love in some form might be available. A compassionate heart comes as we walk through our own experiences of pain and loneliness.
Henri Nouwen spoke of this loneliness and how embracing it can become part of our journey towards healing hurt emotions. In his essay, “Stay with your Pain,” he wrote: “It is not easy to stay with your loneliness. The temptation is to nurse your pain or to escape into fantasies about people who will take it away. But when you can acknowledge your loneliness in a safe, contained place, you make your pain available for God's healing.”
What then becomes of the broken hearted who may not get what they want but what they need? It all depends on whether they allow their open wounds to be immersed in the healing waters of God’s grace.
That healing may not come all at once, but it ever so surely flows to those who venture reconciliation with God, themselves, and others. “I am the Lord who heals you,” (Exodus 15:26), God reminded the wounded nation of Israel.
It’s in the midst of the brokenness and strife that we may find some kind of peace of mind, maybe--- for after all, if life is to be lived, it must be lived in the midst of the failed relationships, forced alienation, and damaged emotions of brokenhearted people. If peace can’t be found there, it won’t be found--- for the world of the brokenhearted is the world we live in.
And what becomes of the brokenhearted is what becomes of us.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Pardon my Blush
I could feel the veins in my face grow suddenly warm as I imagined my cheeks glowing bright red, signaling to all that I was blushing.
It happened in the post office. Clinking shut the little door to my mail box, I whirled around to see the usual long line waiting at the counter. And there with her back turned to me was one of my parishioners. I sneaked up to her and bending my finger to form a knuckle, tapped her on the arm, mouthing a clicking sound as I did, thinking she would laugh when she saw that it was me, her pastor who was teasing her.
Only when she turned around in surprise, it wasn’t my friend; it was a complete stranger.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I attempted an apology as I stepped away from her. “I…I thought you were someone else.”
By now, everyone else in line had turned around, curious to see what was happening, wondering what exactly I had done to this innocent victim of my misplaced prank. I thought I noticed one lady edging closer to the counter.
I backed out of the post office, in the words of Roberta Flack, “all flushed with fever.”
Later that day, right after lunch, I happened to see my friend’s son-in-law downtown. I told him my story of how I had thought I had seen his mother-in-law at the post office but startled someone else. We both laughed.
Moments later, back at the office, I glanced in the mirror.
What was that on the side of my face? Oh my goodness, a splotch of brown balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing from lunch. Now I wondered if the son-in-law was laughing at my story or the brown tobacco-juice-looking stain glaring on the side of my mouth.
And again, I felt, “all flushed with fever.”
That evening, I was telling my wife the story of my two faux paus.
“Did you have any appointments this afternoon?” she asked.
“Just one,” I answered. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got mustard on the front of your shirt.”
She wasn’t kidding--- there it was, bright shining and yellow, between the third and fourth buttons.
It was all in a day’s work: Through each awkward event I felt that rush of blood to my cheeks and a faint light-headedness.
It’s called blushing, and scientists believe it’s is a common human reflex that developed in our evolutionary process over tens of thousands of years. It’s akin to a “flight or fight” response to our nervous system, an involuntary reaction. We have a sudden rush of adrenaline, our pupils grow larger, and our digestive system slows down to allow the blood flow to be directed to our muscles.
One theory is that blushing came to signal that a social norm had been broken. Neuroscientist Mark Changizi in his book, The Vision Revolution (BenBella, 2009), claims that we developed unusually strong color vision so that we could detect subtle hue changes in other peoples’ skin and could thereby deduce their emotions. His results “showed that in the context of transgressions and mishaps, blushing is a helpful bodily signal with face-saving properties. It seems therefore unwise to hide the blush or to try not to blush in these types of contexts.”
In other words, blushing actually evokes sympathy and in effect disarms an otherwise threatening situation.
Ahh, so that explains that dear lady’s kindness to me in the post office, “That’s okay, I understand,” I thought I heard her say as she beamed an empathic grin. And what’s a little tobacco, I mean balsamic vinaigrette, on the side of the mouth but a cue for more sympathy? And mustard dribbled down the front of my shirt? Bring on the compassion.
Come to think of it, as I reflect on that day, I believe I was the recipient of more warm heartedness than usual.
I’m getting up extra early tomorrow to practice a little blushing. And if I can’t come by it that way, I’ll just wear a brown penny loafer on my left foot and a black wing tip on my right.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He is also an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his web site, www.davidbwhitlock.com
It happened in the post office. Clinking shut the little door to my mail box, I whirled around to see the usual long line waiting at the counter. And there with her back turned to me was one of my parishioners. I sneaked up to her and bending my finger to form a knuckle, tapped her on the arm, mouthing a clicking sound as I did, thinking she would laugh when she saw that it was me, her pastor who was teasing her.
Only when she turned around in surprise, it wasn’t my friend; it was a complete stranger.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I attempted an apology as I stepped away from her. “I…I thought you were someone else.”
By now, everyone else in line had turned around, curious to see what was happening, wondering what exactly I had done to this innocent victim of my misplaced prank. I thought I noticed one lady edging closer to the counter.
I backed out of the post office, in the words of Roberta Flack, “all flushed with fever.”
Later that day, right after lunch, I happened to see my friend’s son-in-law downtown. I told him my story of how I had thought I had seen his mother-in-law at the post office but startled someone else. We both laughed.
Moments later, back at the office, I glanced in the mirror.
What was that on the side of my face? Oh my goodness, a splotch of brown balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing from lunch. Now I wondered if the son-in-law was laughing at my story or the brown tobacco-juice-looking stain glaring on the side of my mouth.
And again, I felt, “all flushed with fever.”
That evening, I was telling my wife the story of my two faux paus.
“Did you have any appointments this afternoon?” she asked.
“Just one,” I answered. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got mustard on the front of your shirt.”
She wasn’t kidding--- there it was, bright shining and yellow, between the third and fourth buttons.
It was all in a day’s work: Through each awkward event I felt that rush of blood to my cheeks and a faint light-headedness.
It’s called blushing, and scientists believe it’s is a common human reflex that developed in our evolutionary process over tens of thousands of years. It’s akin to a “flight or fight” response to our nervous system, an involuntary reaction. We have a sudden rush of adrenaline, our pupils grow larger, and our digestive system slows down to allow the blood flow to be directed to our muscles.
One theory is that blushing came to signal that a social norm had been broken. Neuroscientist Mark Changizi in his book, The Vision Revolution (BenBella, 2009), claims that we developed unusually strong color vision so that we could detect subtle hue changes in other peoples’ skin and could thereby deduce their emotions. His results “showed that in the context of transgressions and mishaps, blushing is a helpful bodily signal with face-saving properties. It seems therefore unwise to hide the blush or to try not to blush in these types of contexts.”
In other words, blushing actually evokes sympathy and in effect disarms an otherwise threatening situation.
Ahh, so that explains that dear lady’s kindness to me in the post office, “That’s okay, I understand,” I thought I heard her say as she beamed an empathic grin. And what’s a little tobacco, I mean balsamic vinaigrette, on the side of the mouth but a cue for more sympathy? And mustard dribbled down the front of my shirt? Bring on the compassion.
Come to think of it, as I reflect on that day, I believe I was the recipient of more warm heartedness than usual.
I’m getting up extra early tomorrow to practice a little blushing. And if I can’t come by it that way, I’ll just wear a brown penny loafer on my left foot and a black wing tip on my right.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He is also an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his web site, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Should Christians Pray for the Death of President Obama?
Although the Republicans have been going at it for several months, we are not yet into the heat of the presidential race, and already some Christians are praying for the early demise of President Obama.
When I say, “demise,” I mean death.
At least that’s the implication of the recent email sent by Mike O’Neal, the Republican speaker of the Kansas House of Representatives. That email followed a previous one in which O’ Neal had referred to Michelle Obama as “Mrs. Yomama.”
I doubt O’Neal will be a dinner guest at White House any time soon.
O’Neal is not the first to invoke a prayer for the early exit of President Obama. Soon after his election, some conservative Christians circulated a bumper sticker which called on Christians to pray, tongue-in-cheek, for the president: The “prayer” cites Psalm 109:8, a Bible verse in the
form of a “prayer for Obama,” which says, “May his days be few; may another take
his office.”
O’Neal’s email was an extension of that bumper sticker mentality.
The problem is in the phrase, which neither O’Neal nor the bumper sticker purveyors quote directly, but which immediately follows their scriptural citation. It reads: “May his children become fatherless, and his wife a widow. May his children wander as beggars and be driven from their ruined homes.”
Although O’Neal issued an apology saying he only meant that Obama’s days in office be few, the Scripture, taken in context (and O’Neal is apparently interested in the context for his email stated, “At last — I can honestly voice a Biblical prayer for our president! Look it up — it is word for word! Let us all bow our heads and pray. Brothers and Sisters, can I get an AMEN? AMEN!!!!!!”) calls not just for the cessation of employment, in this case the presidency, but for the cessation of life for the person of interest, the enemy---in this case President Obama.
For centuries thoughtful Christians have struggled with this passage, since Christians are not supposed to curse their enemies. The psalm is part of a group of psalms called “imprecatory psalms,” because they call on God to deal with enemies, in some cases, as in Psalm 109, by removing them from planet Earth. Many of the Early Church Fathers dealt with the problem by interpreting this psalm as a prophesy of Judas, since Peter quoted it in the upper room after the suicide of Jesus’ traitor.
Christian apologist and philosopher, C.S. Lewis, spoke of how Psalm 109 “strikes us in the face…like the heat from a furnace mouth.” Lewis pointed to the spirit of hatred expressed in these psalms as a way of reminding us of the evil that resides within each of us, directing us to the humility and love we find in the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ.
Certainly Christians should be mindful that Christ’s love prevails over hatred and evil. But, in regard to the Scripture O’Neil and other Christians like to cite in hopes of a convenient termination of the Obama administration, they should be mindful that the interpretation of this psalm hinges around verse 6, where the cursing of the enemy begins. Some maintain that David, traditionally believed to be the author of the psalm, is not cursing anyone but is rather quoting those who are cursing him. Indeed, some modern translations, like the New Living Translation, supply the words, “They say,” at the beginning of verse six.
In that case, by citing this passage, O’Neal and certain right-wing Christians are actually siding with the enemies of King David, the ones who made the false accusations against God’s anointed one, the ones David cried to God for help and protection against, the ones who prompted David to pray: “Let them curse me if they like, but you (God) will bless me!” (Psalm 109:28)
By analogy to the current situation, Obama would be the one falsely accused by the enemies of God---in this case, the Christian right.
Those summoning God to respond to their “Obama prayer” of Psalm 109 should not only reflect on the legitimization of calling on a loving, forgiving, merciful God to slay another Christian (President Obama is a professing Christian, regardless of what one thinks of his political agenda), but they should also be mindful, as they so cavalierly quote Scripture, of whose side they find themselves on.
Praying for the judgment of an enemy is easy.
But loving one is Christian.
And thoroughly biblical.
When I say, “demise,” I mean death.
At least that’s the implication of the recent email sent by Mike O’Neal, the Republican speaker of the Kansas House of Representatives. That email followed a previous one in which O’ Neal had referred to Michelle Obama as “Mrs. Yomama.”
I doubt O’Neal will be a dinner guest at White House any time soon.
O’Neal is not the first to invoke a prayer for the early exit of President Obama. Soon after his election, some conservative Christians circulated a bumper sticker which called on Christians to pray, tongue-in-cheek, for the president: The “prayer” cites Psalm 109:8, a Bible verse in the
form of a “prayer for Obama,” which says, “May his days be few; may another take
his office.”
O’Neal’s email was an extension of that bumper sticker mentality.
The problem is in the phrase, which neither O’Neal nor the bumper sticker purveyors quote directly, but which immediately follows their scriptural citation. It reads: “May his children become fatherless, and his wife a widow. May his children wander as beggars and be driven from their ruined homes.”
Although O’Neal issued an apology saying he only meant that Obama’s days in office be few, the Scripture, taken in context (and O’Neal is apparently interested in the context for his email stated, “At last — I can honestly voice a Biblical prayer for our president! Look it up — it is word for word! Let us all bow our heads and pray. Brothers and Sisters, can I get an AMEN? AMEN!!!!!!”) calls not just for the cessation of employment, in this case the presidency, but for the cessation of life for the person of interest, the enemy---in this case President Obama.
For centuries thoughtful Christians have struggled with this passage, since Christians are not supposed to curse their enemies. The psalm is part of a group of psalms called “imprecatory psalms,” because they call on God to deal with enemies, in some cases, as in Psalm 109, by removing them from planet Earth. Many of the Early Church Fathers dealt with the problem by interpreting this psalm as a prophesy of Judas, since Peter quoted it in the upper room after the suicide of Jesus’ traitor.
Christian apologist and philosopher, C.S. Lewis, spoke of how Psalm 109 “strikes us in the face…like the heat from a furnace mouth.” Lewis pointed to the spirit of hatred expressed in these psalms as a way of reminding us of the evil that resides within each of us, directing us to the humility and love we find in the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ.
Certainly Christians should be mindful that Christ’s love prevails over hatred and evil. But, in regard to the Scripture O’Neil and other Christians like to cite in hopes of a convenient termination of the Obama administration, they should be mindful that the interpretation of this psalm hinges around verse 6, where the cursing of the enemy begins. Some maintain that David, traditionally believed to be the author of the psalm, is not cursing anyone but is rather quoting those who are cursing him. Indeed, some modern translations, like the New Living Translation, supply the words, “They say,” at the beginning of verse six.
In that case, by citing this passage, O’Neal and certain right-wing Christians are actually siding with the enemies of King David, the ones who made the false accusations against God’s anointed one, the ones David cried to God for help and protection against, the ones who prompted David to pray: “Let them curse me if they like, but you (God) will bless me!” (Psalm 109:28)
By analogy to the current situation, Obama would be the one falsely accused by the enemies of God---in this case, the Christian right.
Those summoning God to respond to their “Obama prayer” of Psalm 109 should not only reflect on the legitimization of calling on a loving, forgiving, merciful God to slay another Christian (President Obama is a professing Christian, regardless of what one thinks of his political agenda), but they should also be mindful, as they so cavalierly quote Scripture, of whose side they find themselves on.
Praying for the judgment of an enemy is easy.
But loving one is Christian.
And thoroughly biblical.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Surprised by a daughter's prayer
Why don’t you go with me?” I had asked my daughter to accompany me to the Abby of Gethsemani. She was home with us for a few days during the Christmas holidays, visiting from New York City. Mary had been to Gethsemani with me before.
“Sure, I’d love to,” was her ready response.
It had been a long December, and in the middle of it, I wasn’t sure this year would be better than the last. Trying to hold life’s inevitable tensions in balance---the pull of decisions that had to be made, the push of the consequences that would come from them, the internal wrestling match that thrashes across the mind, sometime after 2 a.m. ---had worn me down till I cried for a time out.
What “might be,” was obscured by the fogginess of “what is.”
I knew it was time to head to Gethsemani Abby. In the solitude of the monastery I would pray, I would ponder, I would percolate: God’s Spirit would infuse me with a supernatural oxygen rush that inevitably refreshes, rejuvenates, revitalizes.
But this time was different.
Or so it seemed.
The cacophony of this world overwhelmed the quietude of that world.
My escape to Gethsemani appeared futile; I had carried the baggage of my responsibilities into the lobby of this holy place. Gethsemani seemed too familiar that day, too close to the anxieties of the outside. The cares and concerns of the world had invaded the walls protecting the quiet and calm of Gethsemani.
And it was my doing.
Mary and I joined the monks from the gallery and prayed as they prayed, chanting their prayers with them, singing the Psalms at the None prayer time. I waited for relief from my strain but found only heaviness; I couldn’t seem to shake the angst of the world, even in this place of tranquility and repose.
Walking around the back of the cathedral after prayers, Mary and I quietly chatted in subdued undertones. Staring at the naked trees across the valley, letting the December wind tickle our faces, we stood in silence, the whine of the wind whirling in our ears.
And then, quite to my surprise, my daughter prayed for me a prayer of comfort, peace, and renewal.
Somewhat humbled by a daughter’s prayer, my mind swooshed back to May 30, 1990, so many years ago, but only “just yesterday,” when Mary, age two and a half, prayed for me in her own way for the first time: “I love you, Daddy,” she told me after bedtime prayers. I took that in itself as a child’s form of prayer. And a few days later, after praying for her at night, she proclaimed from her bed, “I wanna follow Jesus, too.” Then a few months later, in response to my question before bedtime prayers, “What should we thank God for?” she smiled and answered, “Let’s thank him for Jesus.”
Prayers continued through the passing years.
Straight to that day in the middle of a long December.
And so in the dead of December, waiting for Christmas to come and go and remind us of life in Christ Jesus, I should not have been surprised.
Sometimes God speaks to us through the holiness of monks, sometimes through the beauty of nature, sometimes through the revelation of his Word, and sometimes through the prayer of a child grown to adulthood.
Elijah the prophet stood before the windstorm, but God was not in the wind. Then Elijah withstood the earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake. Elijah endured the fire, but God was not in the fire. Then, there was a gentle whisper. And Elijah heard God’s voice.
Having heard God’s voice in the whispered prayer of my child, I was ready to leave. And having left my momentary spiritual retreat, I knew the world still waited with the same stresses and strains, trials and troubles.
But all was different from within, for I---having let the still, small Voice hold me in balance within the eternal present moment, even as it passes and yet remains forever--- was ready to embrace the long December, and seize the eternal, today.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
“Sure, I’d love to,” was her ready response.
It had been a long December, and in the middle of it, I wasn’t sure this year would be better than the last. Trying to hold life’s inevitable tensions in balance---the pull of decisions that had to be made, the push of the consequences that would come from them, the internal wrestling match that thrashes across the mind, sometime after 2 a.m. ---had worn me down till I cried for a time out.
What “might be,” was obscured by the fogginess of “what is.”
I knew it was time to head to Gethsemani Abby. In the solitude of the monastery I would pray, I would ponder, I would percolate: God’s Spirit would infuse me with a supernatural oxygen rush that inevitably refreshes, rejuvenates, revitalizes.
But this time was different.
Or so it seemed.
The cacophony of this world overwhelmed the quietude of that world.
My escape to Gethsemani appeared futile; I had carried the baggage of my responsibilities into the lobby of this holy place. Gethsemani seemed too familiar that day, too close to the anxieties of the outside. The cares and concerns of the world had invaded the walls protecting the quiet and calm of Gethsemani.
And it was my doing.
Mary and I joined the monks from the gallery and prayed as they prayed, chanting their prayers with them, singing the Psalms at the None prayer time. I waited for relief from my strain but found only heaviness; I couldn’t seem to shake the angst of the world, even in this place of tranquility and repose.
Walking around the back of the cathedral after prayers, Mary and I quietly chatted in subdued undertones. Staring at the naked trees across the valley, letting the December wind tickle our faces, we stood in silence, the whine of the wind whirling in our ears.
And then, quite to my surprise, my daughter prayed for me a prayer of comfort, peace, and renewal.
Somewhat humbled by a daughter’s prayer, my mind swooshed back to May 30, 1990, so many years ago, but only “just yesterday,” when Mary, age two and a half, prayed for me in her own way for the first time: “I love you, Daddy,” she told me after bedtime prayers. I took that in itself as a child’s form of prayer. And a few days later, after praying for her at night, she proclaimed from her bed, “I wanna follow Jesus, too.” Then a few months later, in response to my question before bedtime prayers, “What should we thank God for?” she smiled and answered, “Let’s thank him for Jesus.”
Prayers continued through the passing years.
Straight to that day in the middle of a long December.
And so in the dead of December, waiting for Christmas to come and go and remind us of life in Christ Jesus, I should not have been surprised.
Sometimes God speaks to us through the holiness of monks, sometimes through the beauty of nature, sometimes through the revelation of his Word, and sometimes through the prayer of a child grown to adulthood.
Elijah the prophet stood before the windstorm, but God was not in the wind. Then Elijah withstood the earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake. Elijah endured the fire, but God was not in the fire. Then, there was a gentle whisper. And Elijah heard God’s voice.
Having heard God’s voice in the whispered prayer of my child, I was ready to leave. And having left my momentary spiritual retreat, I knew the world still waited with the same stresses and strains, trials and troubles.
But all was different from within, for I---having let the still, small Voice hold me in balance within the eternal present moment, even as it passes and yet remains forever--- was ready to embrace the long December, and seize the eternal, today.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Monday, January 23, 2012
It's all in the numbers
“Why can’t you do something like that?” My friend jokingly posed that question to me while we were waiting for a church deacons meeting to begin.
Several of us had been talking about Denver Broncos QB Tim Tebow throwing for exactly 316 yards in the Broncos’ overtime playoff win over the Pittsburg Steelers. Not only was it a career high for Tebow, it apparently stupefied many because of the apparent correlation of the number 316 to John 3:16, the biblical reference Tebow used to etch on his “eye black,” to avoid sun glare, during his days as QB for the Florida Gators.
The Bible verse, Tebow’s favorite, says, “For God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” Tebow, easily America’s most popular Christian athlete, has had a close public association with that verse.
The 316 total passing yards was not the only 3:16 connection. He also threw for 31.6 yards per completion. And there’s more: during the final quarter of the game, the TV rating was 31.6. And one final association with the John reference: Tebow works for two men, both of whom have the first name, John.
Can you hear the background music from the Twilight Zone?
Then again, for more rational thinkers--- maybe not.
In answer to the question, “Why can’t you do something like that?” I rejoined, “Tim Tebow only had to look at the Pittsburg Steelers’ defense, not a bunch of ornery Baptist deacons.” (They really can be ornery, but I didn’t say that.)
In all seriousness---since some people do take these numbers seriously, maintaining that the statistics point to John 3:16 as a divine affirmation of Tebow’s witness--- what do we make of this?
I’ve long believed God uses a variety of ways to draw attention to his Good News. And if the statistics can be used as an opportunity for that discussion, then believers can use it in a positive way.
But they should also be extremely cautious when it comes to reading messages from God into football statistics. As Josh Tinley (Kneeling in the End Zone: Spiritual Lessons From the World of Sports) observed in his blog, two of the numbers cited in that playoff game were 31.6, not 3.16.
Why not look for a book in the Bible that has a 31:6, like II Chronicles 31:6, which says in part, “The people…brought in (their) tithes.” And, besides, many Bible passages other than John have a 3:16. How do we know that those statistics don’t refer to one of them?
Then there is the matter of other football players, who like Tebow, are Christians. For example, Colt McCoy, QB for the Cleveland Browns, is active in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Why not see if any of his statistics connect with a Bible passage he has publicly quoted at some time? What would that reveal?
Or, what if an athlete was of another faith, say Islam? Would evangelicals be disturbed if some of his statistics connected with a passage from the Koran?
The point is, we can substantiate all kinds of beliefs---some true, some erroneous---when we gaze long enough in the tea leaves. Michael Shermer, a religious skeptic, uses this truth to challenge the very essence of religion. In his book, The Believing Brain, he maintains that the brain is “a belief engine,” which looks for and finds confirmation for beliefs in patterns; we naturally find meaning in connecting the dots, infusing those patterns with meaning, which only serves to reinforce the beliefs with which we began.
So, perhaps believers would do better to practice “tebowing” (so named after the way Tebow kneels in prayer on the sidelines) and remember the words he often speaks, “First and foremost, I just want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He’s done so much in my life.”
Having done that, leave the statistics to the people in the press box. After all, those stats are only numbers.
And, so much of athletic success---and, yes, even some so-called miracles---is all in the numbers.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D, is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches as an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Several of us had been talking about Denver Broncos QB Tim Tebow throwing for exactly 316 yards in the Broncos’ overtime playoff win over the Pittsburg Steelers. Not only was it a career high for Tebow, it apparently stupefied many because of the apparent correlation of the number 316 to John 3:16, the biblical reference Tebow used to etch on his “eye black,” to avoid sun glare, during his days as QB for the Florida Gators.
The Bible verse, Tebow’s favorite, says, “For God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” Tebow, easily America’s most popular Christian athlete, has had a close public association with that verse.
The 316 total passing yards was not the only 3:16 connection. He also threw for 31.6 yards per completion. And there’s more: during the final quarter of the game, the TV rating was 31.6. And one final association with the John reference: Tebow works for two men, both of whom have the first name, John.
Can you hear the background music from the Twilight Zone?
Then again, for more rational thinkers--- maybe not.
In answer to the question, “Why can’t you do something like that?” I rejoined, “Tim Tebow only had to look at the Pittsburg Steelers’ defense, not a bunch of ornery Baptist deacons.” (They really can be ornery, but I didn’t say that.)
In all seriousness---since some people do take these numbers seriously, maintaining that the statistics point to John 3:16 as a divine affirmation of Tebow’s witness--- what do we make of this?
I’ve long believed God uses a variety of ways to draw attention to his Good News. And if the statistics can be used as an opportunity for that discussion, then believers can use it in a positive way.
But they should also be extremely cautious when it comes to reading messages from God into football statistics. As Josh Tinley (Kneeling in the End Zone: Spiritual Lessons From the World of Sports) observed in his blog, two of the numbers cited in that playoff game were 31.6, not 3.16.
Why not look for a book in the Bible that has a 31:6, like II Chronicles 31:6, which says in part, “The people…brought in (their) tithes.” And, besides, many Bible passages other than John have a 3:16. How do we know that those statistics don’t refer to one of them?
Then there is the matter of other football players, who like Tebow, are Christians. For example, Colt McCoy, QB for the Cleveland Browns, is active in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Why not see if any of his statistics connect with a Bible passage he has publicly quoted at some time? What would that reveal?
Or, what if an athlete was of another faith, say Islam? Would evangelicals be disturbed if some of his statistics connected with a passage from the Koran?
The point is, we can substantiate all kinds of beliefs---some true, some erroneous---when we gaze long enough in the tea leaves. Michael Shermer, a religious skeptic, uses this truth to challenge the very essence of religion. In his book, The Believing Brain, he maintains that the brain is “a belief engine,” which looks for and finds confirmation for beliefs in patterns; we naturally find meaning in connecting the dots, infusing those patterns with meaning, which only serves to reinforce the beliefs with which we began.
So, perhaps believers would do better to practice “tebowing” (so named after the way Tebow kneels in prayer on the sidelines) and remember the words he often speaks, “First and foremost, I just want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He’s done so much in my life.”
Having done that, leave the statistics to the people in the press box. After all, those stats are only numbers.
And, so much of athletic success---and, yes, even some so-called miracles---is all in the numbers.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D, is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches as an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Friday, January 13, 2012
Only pictures on a calendar?
The New Year already has flown, leaving its newborn status lying flat in the nest.
And I’m left with all these extra calendars---two from local businesses, two from churches which somehow think I will be interested in adding their agenda to my schedule, and another complimentary calendar from a company wanting me to buy calendars to give people next year, assuming, I suppose, that I somehow believe others will be interested in my agenda next year.
But I like the pictures on these calendars, anyway.
Most appealing to me are calendars with pictures of nature coinciding with each season, which is nice, especially if you live in a place where you don’t have distinct seasons. In Oklahoma, where I grew up, we could have a brutal winter followed by a miserably hot summer---both of which seemed to endure forever. But fall was a weekend fling, and spring was a whiff in the air. So I loved gazing into those calendar pictures of a New England fall foliage or a radiant springtime in Kentucky. Ahh---how relaxing they seemed, especially to a high strung high school kid.
Why do so many calendars have pictures of animals---dogs, cats, horses? I suppose if petting a dog or having a cat curl up in your lap can steady your emotions on a roller coaster day, maybe the next best thing would be a picture of a likeable creature. And that’s nice, especially when so many of the human species aren’t.
Calendars with mountain or ocean scenes can bring relief from the harsh realities of life, too. Just imagine you are there, and that can smooth wrinkled emotions.
But, of all the calendars I enjoy, one calendar stands above all the rest.
That’s happens to be the custom calendar my wife created online. Each month is filled with pictorial memories of my family. I turn to January and there is Mary and me, having a cup of Community Coffee in the kitchen; in April Lori is baking a birthday pie for Madi; I look to July and there’s Dave and Madi splashing in the pool with our two Schnauzers; a glance at August and Mary and Madi are cooking an Italian dish for grandparents; and finally, I’m in December smiling at Harrison opening presents.
Relax, release, rejuvenate.
Calendar pictures of family soothe me amidst the stress and strain of life, reminding me, as I close my eyes with those pictures in my mind’s eye, of life’s priorities. Unlike the old flip books, which created an illusion of motion as you thumbed through them, glancing through the calendar’s family photos does quite the opposite: It halts the movement into a single photo shot, a sort of mental composite, leaving us with an image of what’s really important: family.
I’ve never known anyone in their dying moment wish for more time at the office. But I have seen, time and again, person after person, finding comfort as they lay dying in the presence of their family.
Death brings the living together---at least for a dying moment.
On this calendar day, I’m standing with a young couple at the graveside service for their stillborn child. Grieving the memories of memories that never happened---their baby’s first cry, the giggles, the words “Dada,” and “Mama,” the baby’s first steps---the parents seem mesmerized by the tiny box containing the body of their baby.
Having closed the service, the harsh January wind whips across our faces as I ask: “Would you like a little time here just to yourselves, apart from the rest of your family?”
“No,” the father whispers, “we can only make it as a unit.”
A unit--- a family unit.
I doubt that cemetery scene will be on a calendar picture next year or ever, but I hope the words will echo for that family through the months of each year: “We can only make it as a unit.”
Death is a part of living, and though it’s usually an uninvited and unwelcomed guest, it still intrudes onto our calendars without our invitation or embrace, reminding us that it has an appointment with each of us on a number somewhere between one and thirty-one. But the family pictures, those memories of life---or even the desire for it---breathe significance into what is past and cast hope for the future: We can make it as a unit, a family unit.
And that’s the truth---no matter what pictures are on your calendar.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, or visit his web site, davidbwhitlock.com
And I’m left with all these extra calendars---two from local businesses, two from churches which somehow think I will be interested in adding their agenda to my schedule, and another complimentary calendar from a company wanting me to buy calendars to give people next year, assuming, I suppose, that I somehow believe others will be interested in my agenda next year.
But I like the pictures on these calendars, anyway.
Most appealing to me are calendars with pictures of nature coinciding with each season, which is nice, especially if you live in a place where you don’t have distinct seasons. In Oklahoma, where I grew up, we could have a brutal winter followed by a miserably hot summer---both of which seemed to endure forever. But fall was a weekend fling, and spring was a whiff in the air. So I loved gazing into those calendar pictures of a New England fall foliage or a radiant springtime in Kentucky. Ahh---how relaxing they seemed, especially to a high strung high school kid.
Why do so many calendars have pictures of animals---dogs, cats, horses? I suppose if petting a dog or having a cat curl up in your lap can steady your emotions on a roller coaster day, maybe the next best thing would be a picture of a likeable creature. And that’s nice, especially when so many of the human species aren’t.
Calendars with mountain or ocean scenes can bring relief from the harsh realities of life, too. Just imagine you are there, and that can smooth wrinkled emotions.
But, of all the calendars I enjoy, one calendar stands above all the rest.
That’s happens to be the custom calendar my wife created online. Each month is filled with pictorial memories of my family. I turn to January and there is Mary and me, having a cup of Community Coffee in the kitchen; in April Lori is baking a birthday pie for Madi; I look to July and there’s Dave and Madi splashing in the pool with our two Schnauzers; a glance at August and Mary and Madi are cooking an Italian dish for grandparents; and finally, I’m in December smiling at Harrison opening presents.
Relax, release, rejuvenate.
Calendar pictures of family soothe me amidst the stress and strain of life, reminding me, as I close my eyes with those pictures in my mind’s eye, of life’s priorities. Unlike the old flip books, which created an illusion of motion as you thumbed through them, glancing through the calendar’s family photos does quite the opposite: It halts the movement into a single photo shot, a sort of mental composite, leaving us with an image of what’s really important: family.
I’ve never known anyone in their dying moment wish for more time at the office. But I have seen, time and again, person after person, finding comfort as they lay dying in the presence of their family.
Death brings the living together---at least for a dying moment.
On this calendar day, I’m standing with a young couple at the graveside service for their stillborn child. Grieving the memories of memories that never happened---their baby’s first cry, the giggles, the words “Dada,” and “Mama,” the baby’s first steps---the parents seem mesmerized by the tiny box containing the body of their baby.
Having closed the service, the harsh January wind whips across our faces as I ask: “Would you like a little time here just to yourselves, apart from the rest of your family?”
“No,” the father whispers, “we can only make it as a unit.”
A unit--- a family unit.
I doubt that cemetery scene will be on a calendar picture next year or ever, but I hope the words will echo for that family through the months of each year: “We can only make it as a unit.”
Death is a part of living, and though it’s usually an uninvited and unwelcomed guest, it still intrudes onto our calendars without our invitation or embrace, reminding us that it has an appointment with each of us on a number somewhere between one and thirty-one. But the family pictures, those memories of life---or even the desire for it---breathe significance into what is past and cast hope for the future: We can make it as a unit, a family unit.
And that’s the truth---no matter what pictures are on your calendar.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, or visit his web site, davidbwhitlock.com
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