Pardon Me

Caught the line of a song the other day and as intended it caught my attention, although I doubt the path it led me down was the lyricist's intended.  It took me back to 1966.

I was with my mom and older brother (our younger one didn't get here 'til '67) at the grocery store.  More specifically, at the bulk candy area of the grocery store staring at the lemon drop bin.  Nothing activates creative problem solving quite like an ignored request.

Armed with the short-sightedness of a fixated preschooler lacking pockets of her own, I convinced my brother to procure a fistful of my obsession.  I'm not sure how many lemon drops fit in a 6 year old's tiny hand; three maybe four. The particulars are fuzzy when five decades separate the event from the memory but not as fuzzy as those lemon drops were after having spent the rest of the shopping trip clutched in a sweaty fist inside his fleece-lined coat pocket.

What's not fuzzy is that emotional cluster exploding in my heart and head when Mom told the cashier that we had a purchase to make and then asked Rick to put what he had in his pocket on the conveyor belt so he could pay for it.  Money?!?  We had no money!  The cashier insisted that it was not a big deal.  Mom insisted otherwise.  I believe the agreed upon restitution was one cent per drop.  Might as well have been 100 dollars per drop.  If you don't have it, you don't have it.  Mom eventually paid the bail after we agreed to work off  our debt but our relief was short-lived.  Before leaving the store, or earshot of the checkout stand, she insisted we consume our ill-gotten-gains.  Sweaty palms, fleece-lined pockets harboring long forgotten treasures, fear-bred snot and relief-bred tears is a memorable concoction.  Desire, anticipation, terror, guilt, redemption, relief, shame...lesson eternally etched.

Had the cashier gotten his way, we would have been pardoned.  Mom had a different idea. What we got was a lesson in guilt, redemption, restitution and forgiveness. But what I (can't speak for my brother) wanted more than anything was to be innocent.  Impossible.  I am forever the mastermind behind the great lemon-drop heist of 1966.  My influence was directly responsible for dragging another human being into the cesspool of criminal activity.  Innocent can never be a part of the definition of who I am.  I am forgiven...but not innocent. Restitution has been made, a price had to be paid because of guilt.

So when I hear a song declaring "I'm forgiven.... I am innocent,"  I say no!  Forgiven, by definition implicates guilt. Innocent means I did nothing wrong.  To be innocent means I have no need of forgiveness.  No need for redemption.  No need for pardon. And if there is anything I am in need of, it is forgiveness, redemption and pardon.  Remembering that keeps me grateful, appreciative and never wanting to be the cause of another's fall from grace. 

Hand-me-downs

Been spending lots of time at my childhood home lately.  That seems to be fueling multiple trips down memory lane.  Never sure where the road might lead, or where I might find a point along the trail to pull off and ponder a scenic overlook.  Today's retrospective --- hand-me-downs.

In those younger years, my wardrobe was made up, almost exclusively, of the outgrown cast-offs from others. Don't get me wrong; I thought then, as I believe now, that it is a perfectly wonderful arrangement. In fact, one of my favorite current hobbies involves trying to breathe new life into old articles of clothing. Thank goodness for community theater costuming needs!

This month my dad turned 82.  I watched him open a gift containing shirts (new with tags).  Will he wear them?  Doubtful.  Why?  They are labeled extra large.  And my dad insists he's a medium.  Oh, Dad, that train left the station a few decades back, but he's become so accustom to ill-fitting clothes he thinks that is how things are supposed to fit.  Ever found yourself in that situation?  I love the line from Dolly Parton's character in Steel Magnolias when they're discussing shoe size.  "I wear a 6, but a 7 feels so good that I buy an 8."

All that aside, I'm reminded of an ancient story involving hand-me-downs. Well hand-me-ups better describes the situation.  David. Sandwiched between the time of his service to Saul as an armor bearer, and taking the throne, was that little Goliath incident.  1 Samuel 17 tells us the story.  Before the sling's shot that was heard around the world, Saul, who was "head and shoulders" taller than the average Israelite, offered his battle gear for David to wear. Intention far outweighing execution here.

My guy is exactly head and shoulders taller than I, and that amounts to a 12 inch difference.  Google Iron Age armor and it's easy to see why Saul's offer lacked wisdom and foresight. There's no 'give' in that stuff! What was he thinking?

What was David, who had been charged with hauling that stuff around prior to this altercation with the Philistine, thinking?  He would had to have known that he wouldn't  be his most effective self ensconced behind a wall of iron, I wouldn't be surprised if  he hadn't actually already tried the stuff on back when he was Saul's armor barer. It would be hard to resist.  And we know David had difficulty in that area, but that's a story for another day.

Today has me wondering  what is it any of  us might be thinking when we, like Saul,  insist others walk in a life not designed for them?  Or, how delusional one must be to ignore the pain of trying to wear the ill-fitting armor fashioned specifically for another?  Thankfully David came to his senses, shed Saul's stuff, and trusted in what he knew: his God, and his God's promise as well as his own practiced skill.

What happens when we refuse to honestly assess our lives by comparing them with another's or even against what may have been our own but is no longer relevant?

Today I look at my closet and I see a lot of  hand-me-downs. Most fit me well enough and were perfectly suited to the person I was yesterday.  But today's a new day.  And there's nothing pretty about insisting on squishing into a medium when my needs have expanded to accommodate an extra large. Not sure what that means but it's time to find out.

The 'sons of god'

The ‘sons of god’

1928 Excavation

This three word label, as used in the Old Testament, is responsible for countless theological debates.  Frankly, I’ve read more academic papers on the subject than I care to admit. Granted I’d rather read an academic paper – dull as it might be – as opposed to hearing another single regurgitation of the theory scraped out of The Book of Enoch.  If you don’t know what that entails – don’t worry, you’re not missing a thing.  If you’d like to research a bit on your own, I recommend checking out what  www.refuteit.com/article-blog/the-dangers-of-the-book-of-enoch  has to say on the subject.

After having wrestled nearly five decades with this myself (not even kidding!), I stumbled on something that has settled the question for me.  Much like the Rosetta Stone provided the key to deciphering all Egyptian writing forms, this 100 year old discovery has the potential to shed light on some long held assumptive guesses we have had in Biblical interpretation and understanding. The ‘sons of god’ being one of them.

Enter the world or Ugaritic Text.  What?  Never heard of it?  Neither had I, until recently.  The condensed version: in 1928 the ancient Canaanite city of Ugarit was discovered along the Mediterranean Coast of modern day Syria.  This city had been built during the Neolithic period at about 6000BC (roughly the time the Bible tells us that Noah’s grandson, Canaan would have been marking his territory – but hey, that’s another blog). Archeologist uncovered a massive amount of written information housed in the city of Ugarit. What’s interesting are the languages that information was written in: three known and one previously unknown.  That unknown language has been dubbed, Ugaritic, and is presumed to be a transition-era blended version of alphabet script (like Hebrew) and cuneiform (like Hittite, Sumerian, and Ancient Persia). 

World's first alphabet - 1400 BCIt appears that the Ugaritic language and Hebrew are kissing cousins, and that’s what makes it so important for anyone interested in Biblical history.  The city of Ugarit was a thriving metropolis at the time of Joshua’s conquest and during the 400 years recorded in the book of Judges.  And what has been established thus far, is that the grid through which our Western eyes have tried to understand the ancient Hebrew world needs to be a lot less Babylonian (which is between 500 and 1,000 years too recent) and a lot more Canaanite. Ugaritic texts are the solution to the myopia.

All this to say, it was a simple phrase used by the worshipping Canaanites discovered in the Ugaritic writing that ended my 50 year questioning conundrum…Baal worshippers referred to themselves as ‘sons of god’.  Which god (el)?  Which ever one chosen from a plethora: Baal and Dagon were among the favorites.

Because the writers of the ancient Hebrew Bible knew their audience and shared similar cultural understandings, there was not the confusion we have today with the phrase, ‘sons of god’.  Easy, peasy. No need to upend the laws of physics, nor speculate on the amorous urges of disenfranchised angelic beings, or resort to an 1,800 year old work of fascinating fiction in an effort to come to grips with the meaning of those three little words, ‘sons of god’. 

Now that that is settled, it’s time to head into my craft room and hopefully unearth a few treasures of my own. 

What Can You Do About It?

What is it about humans that make us want to look for answers where they are not found?  Years ago I had a brief conversation with a person pontificating against a strongly felt issue.  After agreeing I asked, “What can you do about it?”   

*Insert cricket chirps here.*

I get it.  It’s easy to rail against what we find objectionable. After tying on a good old fashioned gripe-fest, a person often feels a sense of resolve, as if something has been accomplished.  But has it really?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve participated in my share of gripe-fests, but all that’s needed to shut them down is to ask, “What am I going to do about it?”  I will either shut-up or search for an answer. 

We often feel powerless; like insignificant specks in a great cosmic pinball game. It takes less effort to think that than to believe otherwise.  What if this thing we call life isn’t something that just bangs us around while we cross our fingers and hope for the best?  What if your life is so significant that it can - like the stars did the Magi 2000 years ago - lead others to life and freedom? 

The disciples asked Jesus for a sign to show them when His inauguration would take place. They’d imagined Him becoming a King, like David, to lead their nation in conquest over the stifling Roman government.  His answer is recorded in Matthew 24.  After describing the tribulation that would be preceding the destruction of Jerusalem and their Temple He said there would be a moment when they would understand. Jesus said, “the light would arise out of the East and go to the West (meaning a new level of understanding was on the horizon) and the sun will be darkened and the moon shall not give her light, the stars shall fall from heaven and the power of the heavens shall be shaken.” WHAT?!? The light will arise, but the lights are going to become dark?

Translation:  The heavenly signs that had been used to point to The Savior’s coming would no longer carry any weight.  The Savior had already come. Stop looking for the stars as the guide to His presence. Look, instead, for lives that shine with the glory of God’s life, light and love reigning and changing the hearts of people.  That’s His Kingdom plan for righting the world’s wrongs.

What can you do about it?