Beloved

This morning I sat alone, for a long time, on the north pier. Surrounded on all sides by a living photograph. The water glistened. The green grasses of the marsh off to one side and waves lapping on the rocks. A small fishing boat perfectly placed in the distance. Sea birds darting over the water in their dance of joy. Sunlight breaking through the cotton-candy clouds. No photograph could have done it justice.

And on the osprey nest just yards away, young birds flapping their wings, building up the muscle to spend their lives in the sky. The privilege of my existence, in that place, at that moment did not escape me.

The wonder of God’s creation in one small slice and I had it all to myself. I said aloud, “Lord, I still find it hard to accept that I am your beloved. But allowing me to be here now is pretty convincing. Thank you.”

Lately the persistent evil side of life, our human brokenness, has been especially crushing. But I was able to understand that the glory of God and our brokenness can coexist and that God’s love—being the beloved—cannot be diminished.

Hatred

“We cannot pray in love and live in hate and still think we are worshipping God.”

A.W. Tozer

Admittedly, I don’t know much about A.W. Tozer. I know he was a Christian pastor, a humble man of great depth, and he is often quoted with reverence as a great teacher.

Reading these words of A.W. Tozer, in this time of great national turmoil, caused me to sit up straight and think—yes, those people, those awful hateful racist people are betraying their alleged Christian values, those Pharisees aren’t worshipping God.

Brakes squealing. I cringe to think of some of the racist attitudes I have had in my long life. As much as I try not to be like those awful racists, those ugly other people, my own knee-jerk racist attitudes are like an indelible stain on my own conscience. I am humbled, embarrassed, and I pray forgiveness. I’ve been blind and there’s no excuse. I wish I had done better.

And then . . . do you see what I just did? I’m throwing stones at other racists, especially those who call themselves Christian. Do I hate them? I want to follow the adage—"love the sinner, hate the sin,” but even that involves pointing a finger at others. Should I point the finger at myself?

And honestly, I admit to big, big hate for the elected leader of this country. I have such a visceral revulsion for the man and for everything he does. If it’s wrong to hate, then no hate is excusable. Is there another word for this feeling I have?

I have no answers to any of these questions. 

Ants can't swim

Excuse me for my current craziness. You don’t have to excuse all of my other craziness, but today’s craziness should be forgiven. I am angry beyond words because of the horrible mess going on in my beloved country. I am sick of racism, hate, incompetence, blasphemy, rancor, political nonsense, Amazon furniture that falsely claims to be easily assembled, and ants. 

Suffice it to say, the furniture came in a thousand pieces, not one piece attached to another, no parts labeled, illustrations that were done be a two-year-old, and instructions written in ancient Hittite. I sweated blood in the assembly of this monstrosity. Two drawers are broken, things don’t line up properly, and it looks like it was put together by an orangutan. Sorry, didn’t intend to demean orangutans—they would have done it better. Enough of that.

Which brings me to the ants. There are tiny ants on my black countertops. I can’t see them because they are in camouflage. They are in my mailbox and inside the dishwasher. They attach themselves to any remnant of a food item or any kind of food serving item anywhere in the house. They are the smallest ants I have ever seen and I wonder if they are indigenous to South County. I know they have been swimming in my well, the bastards.

Because I’m in such a nasty mood I have not been kind to the ants. No more Mr. Nice Guy, picking them up gently and releasing them outside. I’d make a lousy Buddhist. I know I am harming living things and I don’t care anymore. 

Here’s what I have discovered: Ants can’t swim. I fill my kitchen sink with water and I sweep the ants into the sink to watch them drown. They move their miniscule legs as if they are trying to walk on water. Did Jesus invite them to come out of the boat? I don’t think so. If I’m feeling especially wicked, I douse them in boiling water. I leave the water in the sink all day and keep a body count. And I don’t feel guilty. So there. Don’t mess with me. I’m not in the mood to be messed with.