The Best Lesson in the Christian Faith I Ever Learned from a Buddhist

The Linguista and I recently found ourselves in one of our famous marathon parking lot discussions that occur when one of us drives the other to a mutual destination and then the return trip to pick up the car turns into a two-hour gab session that inevitably becomes deeply philosophical.

As we talked about relationships, I told her that I had to focus on being a better person and a better Christian before I troubled myself further to find the love of my life.

"Why are you so hard on yourself?" she asked. "I marvel at you every day."

I mumbled some sort of abashed thanks for the compliment but quickly turned back to my failings. All the ways I fall short of the glory of God that I should be focused on improving.

The Linguista, a Buddhist, asked if Christians were the ones who believe that we are made in the image of God, and I confirmed. "I read this part of your book," she said. "And I don't think it means that you have the face of God. Maybe you do. But I think it's that your soul is in the image of God. You have a God-shaped soul. And you have to find the beauty of God that's already in you."

I had never thought of being created in the image of God as more than a literal interpretation that we resembled God in some way. And as a Baptist, I've always been far more educated in the ways that I am not like God than in the ways that I am. But to think that, as she put it, I have a piece of God's soul, cleaved from the whole, makes me feel less like I am a broken thing in a constant state of repair and more like I have something amazing inside. And it makes sense to think of God desiring a relationship with a soul that is like Him, but this idea that God's soul was there all the time, is, well, to put it Buddhistly, enlightening.

Dear a-Men:

I read your latest letter to Penelope with, per usual, an absolute sense of likewiseness. Of the sense that tradition clearly stems from the past, is carried into the present and seems rather moot in the face of a faceless future. How (and who - which I must point out is an anagram of "how" -) will it be toted forward if there are no small hands to reach for it? And not even one hand to reach for yours to make new tradition?

Christmas Eve started well enough with coffee with an old friend. But then, it was on to some rather joyless cooking. The chopping and stirring and measuring all seemed rather like a chore than a shared experience. Though we tried to laugh and infuse the egg peeling and pretzel smashing and vegetable boiling with yuletide brightness, it simply felt tired and dim.

We watched the Christmas Eve service on the internet rather than going because I just couldn't muster the energy to push everyone to go. And then we watched Prep & Landing, and it was lovely, but the theme of dissatisfaction and finding fulfillment just made me cry.

And then my brother called and wanted us to come down to his house before Santa's arrival on Christmas morning. But his in-laws were there, and the house doesn't really offer the room for four more adults to be added to the festivities and plus we don't open presents on Christmas day anymore because the in-laws are there and so we postpone until the New Year's weekend. This all led to serious Nana-guilt for my mother and envy-guilt for my sister and me who were having a hard enough time with this holiday season.

The call was a reminder of all the tradition lost and the way our Christmas has become this slippery ephemeral thing to be moved around on the calendar to accommodate everyone's schedule. It all leads to a half-hearted Christmas on both ends of the week - a Christmess if you will. And not only that but there was the reminder of children, of in-laws, of new celebrations and bright eyes and innocence and the kind of love that creates all those things that's decidedly missing from my life right now.

Even though it was snowing - my first white Christmas! - and the Christmas music played in the kitchen and there was a blue velvet birthday cake for Baby Jesus (because Dillon's favorite color is blue) and Reese woke up from her nap demanding "Ash'ey" and curled up in my lap all warm and cherubic for some TV time, there was still on the inside a void. A cold hollow that echoed with all the doubts about whether it will ever be different. Whether I will ever have my own warm cherub and strange desserts by request.

We ended the night by watching two horrible made-for-TV movies that somehow took the edge of bitterness off the day. If even the Hallmark movie could fail in holiday perfection, perhaps I should cut myself some slack.

Ah, M. Let us continue the advent celebration with the same sense of hope that Immanuel delivered to us. God is with us. And for now, that will have to be enough.

Love,
A

God is a Sniper

Ominous message on the letter board outside the Apostolic church half a mile from my house:

"When we take things for granted, those things we are granted get taken."

One Date, Under God

On Friday night, I went out for drinks with a guy. Let's call him Mississippi. I've known Mississippi for more than a year, but it seems that all that time, he's been harboring the hope of going out on a date with me. It took a lot of back and forth and canceled plans, but we finally made it out to a bar post-work on Friday.

I had a nice glass of pinot grigio, and he was working on a Makers and ginger. We talked about mutual friends, about the happening of life. And then we started talking about the election. It's kind of hard not to - the elections, the local ones at least, indirectly affect his job, so it's to be expected that he'd want to chat about the tickets.

But then we headed out on the patio for Mississippi to smoke. Another little red flag waving in the wind. And then suddenly, a few puffs in, and he's talking about religion and how people who believe in God are rather silly. "If it goes well, it's a miracle. And if doesn't, it's a curse." That's followed by an in-depth description of the utter ridiculousness of believing in God. And then he said, "I'm going to come right out and say it - I'm pretty much an atheist."

Silence.

"Um, yeah," I laughed that Nervous Laugh in Response to Weird Situations. "I'm...not."

And so, as Daisy says, it always comes back to Jesus.

Rest for a Weary Soul

Frost Chapel sits up on a hill overlooking Berry's mountain campus. I'm a little rusty on my history, but I think it was built in the early 1900s. For me, it is a sacred place. It is a place where I feel most spiritual, most calm, and always, always at home.

I made one of my regular pilgrimages to Berry last week, and I couldn't resist driving up to the old chapel to wander around for a little inner peace. The stones themselves have a particular smell to me - and it's like inhaling serenity. And for the few moments I stood on the steps looking through the archway and over the mountains, all the outside noise - and the interior noise, too - seemed far below me. And the quiet was just perfect.

Some of that Old Time Religion

Since it's Sunday, I thought I'd post some more of the photos I took in Salt Lake City. In case you don't know, Salt Lake City was founded by Mormon pioneers looking for a place to escape persecution. And right at the center of the city is Temple Square, a nice bit of real estate that houses the buildings of the Mormon church.

There is the temple, the center of the Mormon church, that you can only go in if you're Mormon. I actually saw a guy entering through a door in an alcove using a special key. All throughout the square, there are people stationed to presumably answer your questions about the buildings, but in actuality, want an opportunity to evangelize you.

And then there is the assembly hall built from the granite leftover from the building of the temple. This building, you can go in. And we did. Inside we were approached by no less than three people, including two young women who wanted to send us a video about joining the Mormon family. We declined.

I'm not really sure what is so eerie to me about this experience. I grew up in the Baptist church, so I'm no stranger to organized religion. But I think there is an inherent secrecy about the Mormon faith, a way in which it seems you can only know by getting involved what the faith truly means. At any rate, my travelling companion and I stood curiously outside the temple, and then later, outside the store in the mall called Dressed in White where you can buy garments. We did not purchase our souvenirs there.

Holy Chad Michael Murray

J. and I were actually on time to church this morning and slipped into the balcony before the opening prayer. But just before the invocation someone, who was not so on time, opened the balcony door. I recognized him immediately - not so much from his current teen drama One Tree Hill, but from his stint on Dawson's Creek as Jen Linley's less-than-lovable boyfriend.

Chad Michael Murray was at church, suited up and wearing a bright pink shirt. (Actually, when searching for a photo of him, I think I found one of him in the pink shirt, but it seemed too much.) It was all highly out of order to me until he sat down beside a young blonde - his fiance. And on the other side of his recent high school graduate fiance was her father - and he looked like there were a few things he'd like to say to this spikey haired older recently-divorced guy sliding into the church pew late and wearing Pumas with his suit to boot.

I found it hard to pay attention to what was going on for paying attention to him and his finace and her poor distressed-looking father. Ah, young love. Heaven help them.