Already Behind

Typical to my organized-but-overscheduled life, I’m behind in Systematic Theology. I plan well, I mean well, but life just plain gets in the way. I find some joy and comfort in that; I’ll never have it all mapped out and that’s just the way it ought be. I should preserve a measure of flexibility and perspective to counterbalance my perfectionist nature.

Packer’s Fundamentalism finally arrived, and I immediately skipped ahead (or caught up, depending on point of reference) to an intriguing article, “Why Scientists Must Believe in God” by Vern Poythress. I’m half through; I’ll post more thoughts when I finish.

I did, however, finish the first chapter of the Westminster Confession (WCF), which is not long in and of itself, but I am digesting G. I. Williamson’s study commentary alongside. Chapter One is “Of the Holy Scriptures,” and outlines why, exactly, we should believe that the Scriptures are the infallible, authoritative Word of G-d. In class, we’ve discussed revelation as the principium of theology, the aseity of G-d, and the perspicuity of Scripture. We are just now getting into general revelation and the differences between Barth and the Reformed view of revelation and Scripture. I suppose Barth is easy to use as the anti-Reformed example, even though he had great influence (and still does) on the Reformed church. Our professor’s use of him as dunce prompted him to say, “Now, Barth is not evil, he’s not Satan; he just took some of his ideas too far.” I laughed out loud.

I really only have one observation thus far. I’m slightly disturbed by WCF 1.8:

The Old Testament in Hebrew (which was the native language of the people of God of old), and the New Testament in Greek (which, at the time of the writing of it, was most generally known to the nations), being immediately inspired by God, and, by His singular care and providence, kept pure in all ages, are therefore authentical; so as, in all controversies of religion, the Church is finally to appeal unto them. But, because these original tongues are not known to all the people of God, who have right unto, and interest in the Scriptures, and are commanded, in the fear of God, to read and search them, therefore they are to be translated in to the vulgar language of every nation unto which they come, that, the Word of God dwelling plentifully in all, they may worship Him in an acceptable manner; and, through patience and comfort of the Scriptures, may have hope.

So, let’s just add some gold tablets in the sky, eternal and uncreated in Hebrew and Greek and you’ve darn well got a Qur’an. Kind of made my stomach churn. I do, thanks to Williamson, understand what they were getting at here. Just came too close for comfort in my mind.

Premonition

Overall, this weekend will rank fairly high on my list of enjoyable weekends. My Friday morning started with a brief negotiation for a raise (due to increased job responsibilities) that went so ridiculously well, I still find it absurd. As if Fridays were not wonderful enough. This weekend was also the first meeting of the course I’m TA-ing, Introduction to Islamic Studies. So, Friday (7-10pm) and Saturday (9-4pm), I listened to Dr. Sookhdeo give a (very) concise history of Islam. It was refreshing to know that the majority of his lectures were refreshers for me, and that I was able to answer students’ questions without sounding like a moron. This was also the first time I’ve been exposed to a Christian perspective on Islam from a true academic. Dr. Sookhdeo is not apologetic about the inherent problems in Islam, nor does he shy from challenging the Western church to protect our fellow Christians living as persecuted minorities in the Muslim world.

After class on Saturday, I went to see Amazing Grace, an excellent film with a powerful and convicting story.

It is this morning that has me a bit bothered. I’d intended to visit a friend’s church but they canceled services do to inclement weather. It wasn’t really bad out, I thought. My church hadn’t canceled services, and neither had another church I was interested in visiting. The roads didn’t look slick, but by the time I left, a soft, wet snow was beginning to fall. Flurries, I thought. I’m from Chicago, this is nothing. I left early, assuming all the other drivers would be taking their sweet time getting to-and-fro. And the roads really weren’t bad. When I started. By the time I’d almost reached my destination, I’d slowed down considerably, and was driving cautiously.

And then I sensed something. I was coming up on a curve in the road – one I know to be sketchy even in fine weather, when you are not paying attention and take it too fast. This will be difficult, slick, I thought. Slow down as much as possible and do not touch the breaks unless absolutely necessary. And, whatever you do, don’t fishtail. Wouldn’t that suck if I fishtailed and went over the small grassy median? Wouldn’t it?

That’s exactly what happened. I let off the gas, downshifted and began to take the turn. The car in front of me was going too quickly and needed to break, thus I had to follow suit or rear-end him. My back end fishtailed; I tried to turn away from the median but got pulled towards it. Somehow, I managed to check my mirrors for cars behind me (there weren’t). I tried to turn into the turn, hoping to avoid crossing the median and just stop facing the wrong way on the northbound side of the road, and continued to pray for no cars. Thankfully, there were no cars behind me, or on the southbound side of the median, because that’s where I stopped, facing southbound but at an angle. My car had gone up and over the median (curbed, maybe six feet wide, with grass and bushes.) I remember hoping the bushes would stop me and keep me from going into traffic. But there was no traffic, and as I came to a stop, a car coming southbound saw me, stopped and buffered me from other cars. I was safe but still a hazard to other drivers. I realized then that though I’d remembered to push in the clutch, I hadn’t taken the car out of gear and I was stuck. I don’t think the cars coming up behind me realized I’d not been their southbound company a moment earlier and just thought I was stalled. It took a few tries to get my car to start, get in gear and move out of the way, onto the only spot of shoulder along the road. A very, very kind man with his son stopped to make sure I was ok, and offered to follow me where ever I needed to go. (And he did.)

THANK G-D I’m fine. My car is fine, and no one else was hit or skidded because of me. I was able to spend the afternoon with a friend playing computer video games which, while a splendid waste of time, was also a pleasant distraction from an upsetting event.

What has me bothered is the premonition. This type of thing happens to me frequently, only it typically does not actually involve me. I have hunches, intuitions, or dreams; most often dreams. I hesitate to call them prophetic because, well, they don’t feel prophetic, and many of them having nothing to do with G-d. I don’t know what prophetic is supposed to feel like; I just don’t feel like that. But I know when some things will happen and when other things won’t happen. These events are not always good, nor always bad. For the most part, they are usually things I can do nothing about, and so I’m never really sure what to do with this information.

I’ve generally don’t discuss this openly. Recently, I started telling a few friends when something happens involving them that I’ve dreamt about, but no one seemed to respond, so I stopped. Last week, a close friend had a rough day. I’d dreamt about it weeks before, but I don’t always know the outcome of events, so I didn’t say anything. Should I? Does it matter? What is the purpose?

New Series: Systematic Theology (ST)

After fighting G-d for years on this, I'm finally going to seminary. I didn't really see the point... I don't want to be a pastor or even a pastor's wife. But there are degrees besides MDiv's, and at this point, it actually makes sense for me to go. I'll be learning Greek and Hebrew, which will help later on down the road when I prepare to write a doctoral thesis on Jesus in the Qur'an. (That's not the exact focus, but I can't give away all my secrets!)

Anyway, I figured I'd do what all the other seminary students out there taking Systematic Theology do: blog about my classes.

The first selection for reading was J.I. Packer's "Fundamentalism" and the Word of God, forever lost to the U.S. Postal service. (A new copy is on the way.) So, I skipped ahead to the second readings. We are reading John Murray's "The Attestation of Scripture," found in Ned Stonehouse's The Infallible Word. I'm not fond of Murray's style. It irritates me that he uses circular arguments to justify his self-acknowledged circular reasoning. If he'd stated upfront that he was attacking Barth's view of Scripture, it would've done wonders for his thesis, as his point for the first two-thirds of the article is unclear. As it stands, I'm finding G. I. Williamson's study guide on The Westminster Confession of Faith far more concise and persuasive. I still need to finish sections 8-10 of Chapter I, and then I'll post some more thoughts.

Farewell to a Legacy

Today is a sad day for Illinoisans everywhere. The University of Illinois, after decades of controversy and under the pressure of sanctions by the NCAA, officially retired Chief Illiniwek today. While the spoilers call him a racist mascot, and say his appearances at halftimes are exaggerated exploitations of Native American culture, I have always, and will always see the Chief as a respectful tradition, honoring not only the history of the Native Americans in Illinois, but the embodying the spirit of the University itself.

I can't really explain the Chief because he has to be experienced. And now he will be no more. The Chief is the U of I. His history holds the fertile soil of the Morrow Plots, his artistry mirrors the excellence of the Krannert Center for the Performing Arts, and his passion is echoed in the strive for academic achievement, supported by the University Library, the largest public library in the world (and the sole reason my undergraduate thesis was any good).

The decision today warranted text messages from fellow alumni, and phone calls to my Dad. For me, the retiring of Chief Illiniwek means a family tradition will die, too. I'm a third generation Illini. I grew up going to football games with my Granddad, one of the fondest memories I have from my childhood, and I distinctly remember the reverence my family taught me towards the Chief. Conversations with my Grandma, instead of just being about the weather or the birds on her porch, are sprinkled with Illini basketball statistics - from her, not me. And my strongest connection with my stepmom's parents came when I went to Illinois. When the dementia set in, Mary's one remaining link to my reality was to sing the Alma Mater over the phone whenever I called home, well after I'd graduated. My parents met at Illinois. I met Jesus at Illinois. I'm not trying to equate fondness towards a symbol to my love for Christ. But those memories are intertwined, because they both belong to Illinois.

Hail to the Orange, Hail to the Blue

Hail Alma Mater, ever so true (so true).

We love no other, so let our motto be,

Victory, Illinois, Varsity.

Grown-Up Snow Days

Grown-up snow days are far superior to my childhood memories. Maybe that says more about my childhood memories than I'd like. That's not to say that sledding, snowball fights, building snow forts, drinking gallons of hot chocolate, etc., were not enjoyable. Good times, they were. But typically, even on snow days, we were at the mercy of whatever parents could get off work to supervise and chauffeur.

Alas today was my first free snow day. Ever. (The one time in college classes were cancelled, the cancelling occurred after I sat through an 8am class in the dark, with no heat.)

I did go to work this morning. Well, we were on a 2-hour delay, so I went at 10am. And no one was there... not my co-workers, my boss, or his boss. So, I packed up a binder with a bunch of reading that needed to get done, and headed to Starbucks to work the rest of the day over a hot cup of tea.

I just happened to make a few stops along the way... and, to justify the warm-fuzzy-but-practical-boots purchase, my feet were soaking wet. Once landed in Starbucks, I made a feigned attempt at working. I pulled the binder out of my backpack. But who wants to work when there is John Murray's "The Attestation of Scripture" to be read?

And now there is banana bread to bake, treadmills to run and LOST to watch.

Oh, did I mention that I found a dozen roses on the sidewalk? Who drops a dozen roses and doesn't notice? They were a little frozen, but they still look lovely as my dining table centerpiece.

Chicago Pics

A few moments from my trip...

New snow, outside V and Dave's window this morning.

Dad, this one's for you. From the Coonley House, donated by the Howlett's, no less!

My favorite painting at the Art Institute.

Doesn't that look like something you'd see in a museum? Oh, right...

Drying Out

This week's been a bit of a ride, and I'm realizing more and more that if I do not guard my time and carve out significant space for prayer, study and reflection, molehills turn into mountains.

Occasionally I have to bear in mind I'm an introvert. I can't go to two parties in one weekend because large groups of people exhaust me. The difficulty is finding a balance between loving my friends and being social and giving myself a migraine. Had I not been set on the IKEA pilgrimage or volunteered to "cook" 60 hot dogs for the Super Bowl, I think I would've been alright.

I digress. The real kicker this week was the flood. I came home Tuesday evening with the intention to work out, read for class and then prep the Bible study for small group the following night.

I came home to find ice on my balcony. That's odd, I thought. Why is there a skating rink on my balcony? I stepped closer for a better look. And then I heard it. Trickling water, the soft sound of rain; only it wasn't raining. It was dripping from my ceiling in my living room, bedroom and roommate's closet. It was sopping my carpet. It was ruining pictures and college diplomas, and a stack of notes for class. It was warping cheap furniture. It was thoroughly freaking out my cats.

After cursing, grabbing a handful of towels, forgetting the towels and resorting to moving things out of the way, I just cried. I cried because I couldn't respond the way I wanted to. I wanted to respond with grace, with appreciation that nothing significant was destroyed that couldn't be replaced, with gratefulness that we were some of the lucky ones who did not lose everything. I wanted to not yell at the apartment landlord when they wouldn't at least rip up the carpeting and padding to prevent mold. I wanted to not breakdown and cry. I wanted to be sweet and pleasant and kind and nice. Instead, I was a wreck. I drank wine and at chocolate to cope. I yelled at a friend. I had a phone conversation with another friend that I barely remember because I was too upset to care about what they were saying. I came into work and sat at my cubicle and cried because I didn't have a Bible study prepped and hadn't prayed in days.

And then I did the only thing I could think to do. I asked for prayer. This was a huge ding in my pride. I have little difficulty asking for prayer for scholarships, jobs, decisions, even pesky habits like a poor attitude at work. But to admit that my reaction to a situation was worse than the situation itself, to be vulnerable with my raw emotions and responses; this was a challenge, a test of where my trust truly lies. Was I going to let go of myself enough for G-d to show himself? Do I really trust that He can change me, even when my circumstances don't change?

I'm thankful to say that He did, and in small ways that not only allowed me to actively participate in adjusting my attitude, but fit my personality such that it was restorative. My boss was gracious enough to send me home yesterday so that I could sort through the mess. It sounds silly to say that I started by cleaning, but those who know me well know that this is therapeutic, and having things in as much order as possible was comforting, as well as practical. I rearranged furniture to make better use of the livable space left. When I was done, instead of succumbing to my desire to take a nap, I finally took time to pray. I took a shower, and prepared the Bible study. I read a book. I felt renewed.

Now I'm dried out, both from my negative attitude and literally (the carpet is dry!). I'm sure I will not always respond the way I'd like to stressful situations. But I'll be better prepared, and have the memory of His care this time around.

Frigid cold, and crusted hearts

It’s 21 degrees here today, but it was 38 below zero in Minnesota yesterday.

Thanks to IKEA, I now have a Big Girl Bed.

Class starts tonight. I’m super excited. Still waiting for the book we need for our first reading assignment…

* * *

Anyway, this is what I’ve been thinking about for the last few weeks, and after meeting with some friends yesterday who are bound for the Middle East, these were my thoughts:

I’m mourning the loss of my heart for the nations.

I’ve always been keenly aware of G-d’s love for all peoples, that He desires all to glorify Him, from every tongue and tribe; perhaps accustomed to that even more than His love for me personally. This Will of His was part of my will for a long time and endured many tests of faith.

And then, I lost it.

In large part, I can attribute this to the period in my life when I turned away from G-d’s purposes and plans, lived foolishly, and did not give heed to what He was doing in my life, or beyond. I knew my heart was hard; I did not see the thickening layer of crust growing on it as well. This muck, this cynicism, crept into my thoughts and actions, and I am only now seeing it for what it is and I detest its very presence.

I’ve become bitter, angry with the countries and policies of unbelieving nations; even irritated with their very culture. They’ve become them. Others. Distant. Foreign. Unseen by eyes unwilling to look and therefore forgotten.

And that is only one coat of the crust.

I’m finding what I’ve missed most is my times of prayer for the world, for the persecuted Church and those that do not yet know Him. These times kept me connected, grounded, and drew me closer to His heart. I’ve let my hatred of worldly systems, injustice, and savage behavior rob me of joining in that fellowship. For that, I am saddened and repentant.

It is flaking off now, for that I’m grateful. It is shedding light on my hidden agendas, my willingness to be open to whatever He asks of me, and a richer understanding that ultimately, He calls me to Him.