Gentle Reader,
The first week of a new semester at seminary always ends with me feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. I guess I assumed I’d be used to the mind-numbing amount of reading and writing by now? And here I am, really beginning to think it would be fun to get a Ph.D in Church History…
I need to survive the next fifteen weeks of ridiculously early Thursday morning classes first.
If you want to send coffee giftcards my way, I won’t refuse them.
I’m kidding. Kind of.
Kate says: fix.
Go.
I look at this word, three little letters full of promise. Or disappointment. Hope. Or frustration. I think it’s human to want to fix things. We want the people we love to flourish and the situations in which we find ourselves to be okay. Our definitions of flourishing and okayness differ, but most of us are striving for a state of peace. So when the not-peace arises, when the conflict shakes us to our bones, we want to fix it.
How like the Pharisees we are.
Oh, you didn’t see that coming?
I think about the Pharisees a lot. I really don’t believe their motives were bad. A good chunk of the sect probably wanted to be in solid relationship with God, and they wanted that for others as well. The collective trauma of exile and foreign dominance is not easily shaken, no matter how many centuries pass. The safest way to achieve that peaceful state of mind – rules. And rules for the rules. They fixed things.
How human they were.
How human we are.
The fixedness that we truly long for is found only in God. This means complete and utter surrender. This looks like an understanding of holiness and safety that arises from resting in the presence of God rather than trying to fix persons, places, or things out of our own strength and wisdom. This equals shatteringly honest repentance, the kind that holds nothing back and results in the deepest sort of renewal.
God is the fixer, and the fixed point.
Stop.