For most of my life I've felt like I had a pretty good handle on what it means to be a Christian. Growing up with it helped. I had no sudden epiphanies, no real moments of shock or surprise, just a continual depth of understanding and knowledge that the root of my Christianity is in my own heart, no one else's.
But there are some fundamentals, right? I feel like I've had several conversations lately that have challenged me on this, on explaining what it means to be a Christian--not just calling yourself one, but actually being one.
On Friday at school, one of my little first grade girls was wearing a shirt that had a big Tweety Bird on it and said "Jesus is the tweetest." I made a comment to my assistant that I would never send my child to school in a shirt like that. He asked why and I told him that although I am a Christian and am not ashamed of my beliefs, sending your child to school in a shirt like that is just a cry for negative attention and mockery, and why subject a 6-year-old to that? He made a comment that he is a Christian too, but then proceeded to tell me that he doesn't "believe in the whole church thing...or the Bible, really."
Everything in me wanted to fight at that moment, to tell him why he was wrong (because his logic was not good), and to explain to him that the Bible and the Church are two fundamental properties of Christianity. Sure, you can be a Christian without going to church (although not a thriving, growing one), but there's really no way you can claim Christianity without a basic belief in the Bible. Otherwise it becomes a story, something along the lines of a fairy-tale with extraordinarily impossible events which lend an air of incredibility to the whole plot line of Christianity. If I don't believe the truth of the Bible, I have no foundation upon which to stand.
So many people are "Christians." So few of us actually are.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
believe
This morning I had a conversation about Santa Claus.
Usually when Santa Claus comes up in conversation people are quick to denounce their belief in him, saying, "Oh, I stopped believing in Santa since I was, like, five," or something to that effect. But this morning I talked to a second, third, and fourth grader about Santa and how each of them believes that he exists. Who else eats the cookies? Why else is he at the mall? How come my dad hears the reindeer on the roof every year?
As adults, it's easy to listen to these questions and logic everything away. Seriously, your parents eat the cookies, it's a guy getting paid to sit in the suit, your dad is lying to you. My mom likes to tell us that when she was a little girl she truly believed she heard reindeer on her roof and saw Santa's sleigh flying away from her house one Christmas Eve. I think part of her wants to believe it still, and she's 61 years old!
So today I did not dissuade my kids from their discussion. I did not try to reason with them; instead I told them about my mom, and their eyes grew wide--another adult giving supporting evidence to the case for Santa Claus. For once I allowed myself, for a few moments, not to be a skeptic, and to wonder what it would be like if there really was such a character as Santa, and to get caught up in the childlike excitement in my kids' voices.
I love the movie Miracle on 34th Street. (Lucas doesn't know yet that we are going to have to watch it this Christmas, and probably every Christmas from here on out.) Part of why I like it so much is that it puts all our doubts to shame. What on earth is wrong with believing? What harm would it do to put aside skepticism, if only for a month or two, and encourage the belief?
There is intention behind our belief; I am attempting to put the wonder back into my heart. Where it went, I can't say, but it comes back bit by bit, on threads of spiderwebs, on flurrying snow crystals, in frozen sunrises and faded sunsets, in two-year-olds' laughs, in the intricate patterns of the branches dancing in the wind.
Believing with your lips is easy. I can say it all I want.
Believing with your heart is harder.
Usually when Santa Claus comes up in conversation people are quick to denounce their belief in him, saying, "Oh, I stopped believing in Santa since I was, like, five," or something to that effect. But this morning I talked to a second, third, and fourth grader about Santa and how each of them believes that he exists. Who else eats the cookies? Why else is he at the mall? How come my dad hears the reindeer on the roof every year?
As adults, it's easy to listen to these questions and logic everything away. Seriously, your parents eat the cookies, it's a guy getting paid to sit in the suit, your dad is lying to you. My mom likes to tell us that when she was a little girl she truly believed she heard reindeer on her roof and saw Santa's sleigh flying away from her house one Christmas Eve. I think part of her wants to believe it still, and she's 61 years old!
So today I did not dissuade my kids from their discussion. I did not try to reason with them; instead I told them about my mom, and their eyes grew wide--another adult giving supporting evidence to the case for Santa Claus. For once I allowed myself, for a few moments, not to be a skeptic, and to wonder what it would be like if there really was such a character as Santa, and to get caught up in the childlike excitement in my kids' voices.
I love the movie Miracle on 34th Street. (Lucas doesn't know yet that we are going to have to watch it this Christmas, and probably every Christmas from here on out.) Part of why I like it so much is that it puts all our doubts to shame. What on earth is wrong with believing? What harm would it do to put aside skepticism, if only for a month or two, and encourage the belief?
There is intention behind our belief; I am attempting to put the wonder back into my heart. Where it went, I can't say, but it comes back bit by bit, on threads of spiderwebs, on flurrying snow crystals, in frozen sunrises and faded sunsets, in two-year-olds' laughs, in the intricate patterns of the branches dancing in the wind.
Believing with your lips is easy. I can say it all I want.
Believing with your heart is harder.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
