Scenes From the Spiritual Gym (A Farce That's All Too True)

Scenes from the Spiritual Gym

(Part 1 of a Series)

(Photo credit: jackiebese)

At one of thousands of branches of the American Church Gym:

"Good morning, sir (or ma'am).  What are your spiritual goals, and how can I help you achieve them?"

"Well, I haven't been having my quiet times regularly enough.  I looked in the mirror the other day, and my 'quiet times' abs aren't looking much like a six-pack anymore."

"Oh, well, we can't have that, now, can we?  So, to help us get to know you a little better, please tell us which coaching model you prefer:

• The legalistic accountability partner who motivates you by fear and guilt
• the warm-fuzzy, 'you're not so bad,' coach
• the highly-inspiring 'cheerleader' coach

"Um...well, I guess whichever one will help me reach my goals the fastest.  I really hate these flabby 'service' muscles in my arms, and this fat 'self-control' abdomen!"

"Oh boy, I sure do understand that!  Well here, let's try one kind of coaching approach, and if you find that that's not helping you reach your goals, we'll try a different one, okay?"

"Sounds good!"

"Now, to get us started, let's step in front of that spiritual mirror.  Let's chart what you see compared to what you hope to see, and then we'll know what goals you'll want to pursue."

"Makes sense.  But I'm a little uncomfortable with all the mirrors in here.  Doesn't that seem...I don't know...egotistical or something?  Aren't Christians supposed to be humble?"

Mirror (Photo credit: Chapendra)

The coach laughs and waves a dismissive hand.  "Oh, don't be silly. The Bible says we're to examine ourselves, right?  And how can you do that without a mirror, or goals, or other Christians to compare yourself to?"

"Well, I guess the Bible does say that.  But ugh, I HATE mirrors!"

"Oh, don't worry, we'll whip you into shape in no time, and pretty soon you'll be so spiritually buff that you'll LOVE mirrors!"

"But...but...what about humility?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, either.  We'll keep reminding you.  Humility is one of those spiritual goals, after all, right?  So you just remember to repeat to yourself every day as you look in the mirror, 'Yes, I've still got a ways to go, but by the grace of God I'll be more spiritually buff tomorrow, and then I'll have more to praise Him for!'  That's the key to humility, you know.  The more spiritually buff you become, the more humble it is to scoff and say, 'Oh, no, God did this for me.'  Your 'humility pecs' will pop for sure!"

"So it's a win-win, I guess.  I get to like what I see in the spiritual mirror, and I get to say things that give Jesus the glory!"

"Exactly!  Now you understand the Christian life!"  The coach gives you a wink and an elbow-nudge.  "Don't those 'Praise Jesus' T-shirts look better and more convincing on a hot bod?"

You laugh, and you have to admit that it's a convincing argument.  But there are still some things that you don't understand, so you keep asking questions.

"Okay, well, pardon my dumb question, but what exactly is 'sin?'"

"Oh, well, sin is forgetting your spiritual goals, and not working on them.  You know, not doing quiet times, not putting money in the Salvation Army bucket, that sort of thing."

"And repentance?"

"That's easy!  Repentance means recommitting yourself to your goals!"

"And what is faith?"

"Why, faith is believing that Jesus will help you reach your goals, of course!"

"What is worship, then?"

"Worship is praising God for helping you reach your goals.  And besides, he likes praise, right?  Who doesn't?  So worship helps motivate him to help you reach your goals!"

"Then who is Jesus in this whole process?"

"Well, think of him as your Invisible Fitness Coach.  When you're looking in the mirror, he's looking, too!  If you're getting more and more buff, he smiles more and more.  If you're being naughty, he starts to frown.  But don't worry."  Another dismissive wave of the hand.  "He's very forgiving.  Just say 'I'm sorry,' and promise to do better next time.  It's all good."

"Okay, I think I see it all now.  Let's get to work!"

"Whoo, I love that spirit!  Let's make you look like you want to look, and be what you want to be.  Let's make you LOVE that spiritual mirror!"

So, you begin what you hope will be a lifetime of buffing up under the eye of Jesus, the Invisible Fitness Coach.  But you dread his gaze, and you hope you can buff up quickly.

You look around yourself at the guys and gals who have bulging muscles everywhere.  It's obvious they've been doing targeted toning, so that they've reached a point of fashionably grotesque physiques. The kind of bodies that actual, productive physical labor never forms.  Their bodies are consciously-sculpted gym bodies.

You have to admit, they impress you, and you know that a "Praise Jesus" T-shirt looks a lot better on them than it does on you.

Come to think of it, they inspire you much more than your Invisible Jesus guy.  He's a mystery, but they're clear.  And you like them better...at least some of them...the ones who think you're worth their time, and who will notice you and encourage you.

After a while, the Invisible Coach makes you even more uncomfortable to think about than he used to. Why? Because not only is he judging your buff-ness, but you also have a sneaking suspicion that, if you could see Him, He wouldn't look anything like the pec-poppers around you.

And that means (HORRORS!) that you suspect He wouldn't look anything like what you're trying to become.  And that makes you vaguely angry.  What does he want from you anyway?  You're not sure, but you know what YOU want from yourself.  You know what YOUR spiritual goals are.  You know which part of you you want to sculpt next.  And you know that it has something to do with reading your Bible every day and doing good works (especially the specific types of good works that are most heavily promoted by your branch of the gym).  So you just keep going, following the coaches you can actually see.

Zulfiya Chinshanlo World Champion 2009  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the end, you'll love yourself, and either forget the Invisible Coach, or find that the highest praise you can give Him is, "Look at how awesome he made me!"

Or, you'll hate yourself and the coach, because it was all just too hard, and everybody in the gym is a hypocrite anyway.

Welcome to the Christian life.

Or not.

Stay tuned...

Next:  Scenes from the Sheepfold

Announcing My New (Other) Blog

Photo by Webdeblee

As much as I love writing theological treatises, I have other writing passions as well.  I LOVE to write fiction...in fact, much of how I "work through" issues involves watching characters in my mind living things out and talking to each other.

I know, it's weird.  But that's life as a writer.  As Popeye said, "I yam what I yam."

Most of my fiction never leaves my head.  But a lot of it would like to.  And maybe it even should!

I also occasionally get struck with bouts of poetry, and this new blog will give me an outlet for that as well.

Also, I have lots of older works of short fiction and poetry sitting around.  Some of my works have been featured in this blog, and much has been featured in writing contests at FaithWriters.  (I'm no longer a paying, contest-entering member, but it's a great outlet for Christian writers, so check it out!)  In order to kick-start my new blog, I'm re-posting my favorites over there at an anticipated rate of one per day.

Sooooo, if you like short fiction and/or poetry, please come check out "Weightiness and Whimsy."  I chose the title because (as you've probably guessed), the content will run the emotional gamut.  Currently (as of the morning of 3/4/13), it contains two works of short fiction, one that I would call "heartfelt," and another that is pure whimsy.  They're both older works, written in 2008 for writing contests.  I hope you enjoy them.

If you're hoping for newer content, never fear!  I have a work of very heartfelt short fiction that has been percolating in my brain for days.  In fact, it's the reason I decided that I really needed an outlet for my stories.  Maybe if they get out, they'll quit bouncing around in my head distracting me!

Or maybe not.

And don't worry...I'm still going to finish the series I've started here.  And I still expect that most of my writing will be for this blog, not the new one.

Anyway, please come check out the new blog, and let me know what you think!

The Gilded Box

I don't often write fiction to post here, but something struck me today in my Bible reading, and it made a story come to mind. Please indulge me by reading this quickly-penned little narrative and, if you like, you can speculate in the comment section about why I might have written it. Tomorrow I'll post an entry that will unpack the point of the story in my usual devotional format.

The Gilded Box

Amelia sat on the hard, wooden pew, trying to pretend she cared about the minister's droning words. The sun shone hot through her window, a fly buzzed past her ear, and Mr. Thorpe snored annoyingly a few rows over.

But none of that bothered her as much as what she saw across the aisle.

Prissy Waldrop was sitting beside him. Beside Charles Westfield, the handsomest young man in all of Kansas territory. The man Amelia would have given anything to sit beside.

Not that she ever would have admitted it.

He keeps glancing my way. I wonder why? Amelia kept her own nose pointed straight towards the minister, and occasionally nodded a little to keep up an appearance of attentiveness. But her eyes strained themselves rightward, keeping Charles the Desirable and Prissy the Interloper in sight.

How dare she?

Charles glanced at her again, and Amelia quickly turned her eyes away. Mustn't let him see me looking! She kept her spine ramrod stiff. He must know I'm too good for him…or at least, he must think I am, if he's ever to covet me as his own.

The pastor finally made his last point, whatever that might have been, and the congregation dutifully stood to sing the closing hymn. Amelia didn't need to look at the hymnal to join in, which was a good thing, since her eyes had a far more interesting subject to stare at.

If Prissy tries to keep him all to herself at the picnic, I will be scandalized, simply scandalized! And I'll make sure she knows it, too!

The church picnic featured plenty of delicious food, but it might as well have been platefuls of Kansas dirt for all the enjoyment Amelia got out of it. Charles and Prissy sat together for the whole event.

But she must have noticed how often Charles looked towards me. Amelia had at least that one consolation.

"Time to go, Amelia." Her father extended a hand to help her up from the blanket.

She smiled and accepted the help, but inwardly she fretted. I'm seventeen years old. How much longer am I going to have only Father to extend a hand to me? When will Charles come to his senses and realize he should be helping me up instead?

She made certain never to let Charles see her interest, so she did not look back as she walked to the wagon. But as soon as she had seated herself, she heard the last thing she expected to hear.

"Amelia?"

She turned to see Charles just a few steps from the wagon. For a moment she almost smiled, but she thought better of it. He doesn't deserve me, and he needs to know it.

"Amelia, there's something I need to give you." Charles fished something out of his pocket, while glancing around as if afraid someone would see.

Amelia tried not to be too obvious about scanning the area for signs of her rival. I don't see her anywhere…

Excitement and triumph threatened to erase her carefully cultivated composure, so she reminded herself that, whatever Charles might want to give her, it would probably be less than she deserved.

She reached a gloved hand to receive the gift, making sure her "Thank you" sounded properly distant.

Charles turned without another word and walked away.

Amelia didn't even look at what she held until they had rounded a corner out of sight of the church yard.

The gift lay in a little velvet bag with a cinch-top. She opened it and withdrew a small gilded box, intricate in detail.

Her gasp made her father turn. "What do you have there, dear?"

"Why…it's a gift from Charles Westfield. A lovely keepsake box…quite exquisite. I wouldn't have expected him to have such refined taste."

"Well, isn't that nice?"

Amelia could not stop staring at the box. It spoke to her of the young man's esteem in ever more pleasing ways. He does realize how much I deserve, doesn't he?

As soon as she got home, she removed an heirloom knickknack from her favorite display shelf and put Charles' box in its place. By this time, it fairly shouted to her of his love.

Now all I must do is await his proposal. She planned out all the details…how surprised she would pretend to be when he came to call, how long she would keep him in agony before accepting, and how her demeanor should emphasize how very fortunate he was that she had done so.

He did not call later that day, nor even later that week. The next Sunday Amelia wore her best dress in anticipation of his proposal, but Charles did nothing more than favor her with an unusual number of glances during the sermon. She made sure he never knew she noticed.

On Tuesday next, her friend Emily Harrier arrived at Amelia's house with something less than acceptable formality.

"Amelia, Amelia, have you heard?" The girl nearly shouted her question as soon as she entered the house.

"Heard? Heard what?"

"Why…heard about Charles and Prissy, of course! He has asked for her hand, and she has accepted it!"

Amelia managed to maintain her dignity until she could be alone at last to sob out her grief. How could they? How could they?

The gilded box went into another, much plainer box, tucked away in a drawer…too painful to look at, but too precious to throw away. It remained in that drawer while Amelia pined at Charles' wedding. It rested while she stewed over the gossip about the Westfields' beautiful home in St. Louis. It reposed while she resigned herself to spinsterhood. Untouched, it languished as she did through the years that saw her bury her father beside her mother; the years that faded her beauty, grayed her hair, knotted her joints and bent her spine.

She never spoke of it, or of him. Not until the day her friends and neighbors began to gather by her bedside, and their hushed conversations with the doctor told her what their private words must have said.

Even then, she waited until only her old friend Emily stood beside her.

"Emily, go into that drawer there…do you see the box in the back corner?"

"Yes dear, I see it."

"Open it up and let me see what's inside it. I haven't seen it for so long…"

Emily opened the wooden box and gasped. "Why…it's beautiful! Whatever made you hide it away like this?"

"Let me see it." Amelia reached out a trembling hand and took it. Sixty years seemed to fall away when she felt it in her hand again. "Oh, it really is beautiful, isn't it?"

"What's in it, dear?" Emily's voice brought Amelia back to the present.

"Oh, nothing. I never used it. I just…well…it's just a decorative box.

Emily took it gently from her hands and lifted the lid. "Why…there's a note inside it!"

"What?" Amelia's surprise gave her the strength to raise herself up off the bed a little bit.

"It's very faded…shall I read it to you?" Emily unfolded it in anticipation of the answer.

"Yes…by all means do." Amelia felt dread rising up from somewhere deep inside of her, and the weight of it made her sink back onto her pillow.

"It says, 'My dearest Amelia, I think you must know by now of my great affection for you, though I fear that you do not return it. But as the poet says, 'Hope Springs Eternal,' and I feel I must declare my devotion and hear your reply at once. If you would do me the honor of giving me your hand in marriage, please give me some sort of sign at church on Sunday. A single smile from you will be enough to keep hope alive. If you will not have me, please keep the box as an eternal token of my love. If you refuse me, please know that I shall not trouble you further with my unwanted affections, and will ask the hand of another, though she will always be second to you in my heart. Ardently, Charles Westfield.'"

Amelia could only stare, wide-eyed at the ceiling.

"Why, Amelia…I never knew Charles had such feelings for you…oh dear, you're so pale…I should get the doctor."

Amelia scarcely noticed her friend's hasty departure. All she could do was whisper, over and over again.

"I never opened the box. I never opened the box."

A Question of Identity

Image by FineShots via Flickr

The following is a fictionalized piece based on the life of a man who found God to be faithful even when everything seemed to be falling apart.

><)))0>

A young man he was, full of the vitality of his youth, the blood of nobility pulsing in his veins.

In exile.

He lived in a strange netherworld, a bizarre limbo. His nobility served him well, because it had given him a position of privilege in the land of his conqueror, his new king. And yet he was not free.

This young man was but one of many who had been ripped from their beloved homeland and forced into the service of those who were slaves themselves…slaves to pagan gods whom the young man despised.

He and his good friends sat in their place of tutelage, studying the language of their gentile conquerors.

Forced to assimilate.

And right now this young man sat frozen, horror gripping his gut as his tutor smirked at him.

"Yes," the tutor gloated in his accented Hebrew. "Now you understand enough of our language to know why the king has chosen the name 'Belteshazzar' for you. We told him that your old name, 'Daniel,' meant "Yahweh is my judge.' Of course we can't have that sort of thing here, can we, Belteshazzar? So tell me, Belteshazzar, what does your new name mean?"

Daniel's nostrils flared and his breath came short. Help me, Yahweh. Help me! How can I take such detestable words on my lips? How can I bear such a blasphemous name?

"I'm waiting, Belteshazzar."

Daniel could scarcely breathe. "In your language," he replied through clenched teeth, "It means, 'May Bel Protect Him.'"

"Yes, that's right. But if the king sees your distaste for your new name, I doubt Bel's protection will be enough for you."

Daniel straightened and looked his tutor in the eye. "Yahweh's protection will be."

"Hmph. We'll see about that."

Over the years that followed, Daniel and his friends learned much about their new home of Babylon, and one thing stood out in every lesson.

The king is supreme. His word is absolute law. His edicts, once signed, can never be changed, not even by himself.

Even Daniel's new name had been given by this sovereign king. It could not be changed. By anyone. Ever.

I am doomed to blasphemy. Every time anyone calls to me, they invoke the blessing of their demon god on me. And every time I must introduce myself, I seem to ask for that god's blessing.

I hate it! How can I bear it?

Three times a day, every day, when he fell to his knees before the One True God, he begged Yahweh's mercy on himself for even using such a horrible name.

And never, never could he tell others his name as if he really owned it. He couldn't force himself to say, "My name is…" Instead he always said, "The king has named me Belteshazzar."

Daniel remained true to Yahweh, through tests and trials that put his life in peril, and through ordinary days that teased him with a thousand tiny compromises. He served a succession of kings, outlasting them all. Because of Daniel's powerful testimony, the miraculous gifts he possessed, and the wonders which God performed on his behalf, some of those kings developed some reverence for Yahweh.

Some did not.

Daniel's hair grew white. He fell into obsolescence, scorned by those who cared nothing for the testimony of their elders and had no reverence for Daniel's God.

And always, through the long years, Daniel bore that dreadful name. So three times a day, when he bowed before the One True God, he would affirm that "Yahweh is my judge. I will not ask for protection from the Abomination of the Babylonians."

No one called on him for counsel any more, or for the interpretation of dreams, or to use any of the wonderful gifts that God had given him. But he did not mind. He had never sought prestige among the heathen.

Yahweh is my judge. Yahweh alone.

Then one day, Yahweh came to him in His earth-shattering holiness. It was far from the first time, but Daniel could never get used to it. How does mere flesh bear the presence of the Holy One?

"Daniel, beloved one, messengers from the King will soon come to your door. They need you to interpret what My hand has written on the king's wall. I will tell you the interpretation now, and you are to go with the messengers and give the interpretation to the king. Have no fear of him, for he is a detestable man, and I will require his life from him this very night."

Daniel listened to the interpretation that God gave him, and then rose to meet the king's messengers.

"Belteshazzar," one messenger began, "The king has received a message from a god, written with a man's hand on the wall. He called all of his wise men, but none of them could interpret it. Then the queen came to him and told him to call on you, Belteshazzar. She said, "An excellent spirit, knowledge, and understanding to interpret dreams, explain riddles, and solve problems were found in this Daniel, whom the king named Belteshazzar. Now let Daniel be called, and he will show the interpretation."

"Wait!" Daniel interrupted. "Did she actually say it that way? Did you hear it with your own ears?"

"Yes, I stood by the king to do his bidding. I heard her say those exact words."

Daniel did not hear another word. He walked with the messengers toward the palace, but his heart soared far higher, rejoicing in an infinitely greater Sovereign.

The king's word can never be changed. My name was commanded to be Belteshazzar until the day I died. But the queen…the queen herself, said I was "Daniel, whom the king named Belteshazzar." You, oh Yahweh, have overturned the king's edict. Blessed be Your name, for you have affirmed before the king's household that You are judge, You are my judge, and that accursed name does not really cling to me!

><)))0>

To the one who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, with a new name written on the stone…

Jesus, Rev 2:17

The preceding was a fictionalized account, based on the true story from the Biblical book of Daniel. The pivotal quote comes from Daniel 5:12. I wrote this for all believers who, like me, are seeking to find our true identity in Christ.