Sunday, March 10, 2019

He Signed Bibles

March 2010.
The exact date eludes me. But it happened nine years ago this month. I left an abusive marriage.

You know, psychologists say that if you're escaping a burning house, the first thing you grab on the way out is the most important thing in life to you.

On that day, when I made my fateful decision, I felt like my house was on fire. I was grabbing enough clothing to get my 6-year-old and I through 48 hours while I figured out what to do. I shoved things into a brown Panera paper bag left over from lunch (it was a rather large bag, but it was on the front seat of my car, and it was the easiest thing I had available. I was afraid he would come home and discover what I was doing). As I raced around my house, casting furtive eyes for the things we would need for immediate survival, the old adage was true:

The first thing I grabbed off the shelf ... before the clothes, before the paychecks, before my laptop, before medical prescriptions ... was my Bible.

My Bible was the first thing I grabbed.

I'm not telling you this to make myself sound like a saint. But looking back on that moment in time, when I was afraid for my life, when I felt like everything I loved was crashing down around me ... the survival instinct in me really did kick in.

It's still here on my shelf, the same Bible. It's worn. It has frayed edges. There are underlined passages and little notes with dates scribbled next to them to remind of answered prayers and miracles and cries to God over the past 9 years. All of it. It's more than a spiritual diary. It's a link and my connection to my belief that the Creator of the Universe knows the details of my life -- and actually cares about them.

My Bible feels like a living thing in my hands. And if you're reading this blog and have a similar relationship with God, you know what I'm talking about. It's not just dry words on a page or ancient texts. It's everything to me -- my lifeline to the One who loves me more than anyone ever can.

So let's fast forward to yesterday morning, when I pulled up my favorite social media account, Twitter. A heavy March rain was pounding on my windows, and the sun hadn't broken through darkness yet. As my cat lay purring next to me, the artificial light from the phone screen brought me out of drowsiness. And that's when the first image of my day -- the first image on Twitter -- hit me like a punch in the jaw.

A photo of two Bibles, side by side. On the covers ... ON. THE. COVERS..... someone had taken a thick, black Sharpie marker and scrawled their large, distinctive signature.

Donald J. Trump.

I zoomed in on the Bibles and could see that one was a New International Version. The other, a "soldier's Bible," is something for which the Baptist church collects money to send to troops who are in harm's way. It's not a military version of the Bible, as I saw some people on social media surmise. Its jacket is designed with a "camouflage" cover to appeal to military members. I guess you could call it a marketing approach -- good or bad, I'm not sure, but that's really all it is.

But back to the "autographs."

You've seen people autograph their own books before. They open the front jacket and sign the title page, on the inside of the book. They put a little note to you and wish you well. I don't think I've ever seen an author sign the jacket.

Now let this sink in.

Donald J. Trump didn't write the Bible. He's not the Author. And it would be bad enough for him to autograph the inside title page of a Bible, since ... again ... he's not the Author.

But he took a black Sharpie -- something I use all the time at school now with special needs students -- and he SCRAWLED HIS NAME ACROSS THE FRONT OF THE BIBLES.

I called my mother, who is attending a Baptist church, to ask her about this, because a Baptist church gave Trump the platform for this activity. She told me that people give tithe money for these particular Bibles that were pictured so that they can be given out to anyone in need, such as the soldiers. "Those Bibles were probably sitting in a stack in the fellowship hall, and when Trump came in, people wanted autographs. So they probably spotted them, and those were the first things they grabbed," she surmised.

We don't know if that's what happened, but that's one explanation.

Either way, I thought about the people who put Bibles into Trump's hands for him to sign. I thought about people who had given their tithe money for those Bibles, supposing that the Bibles would be sent to people in foreign countries, shared with people in homeless shelters, or circulated to members of the Armed Services on deployments.

I thought about my Bible.

Would I ever hand my Bible over to someone -- even someone that I admire personally -- for them to AUTOGRAPH? Especially the COVER?

That's a rhetorical question, because if you read the first part of this story, you know there is no way on earth I would relinquish it.

I'm still processing what Trump did yesterday, but I'm also processing what the people in that church did, too. They had so little regard for the Word of God -- for God's love letter to them -- that they handed it over as if it were toilet paper and asked him to sign it.

And by signing it, Trump set himself up as their god -- their idol. Do you think it was an accident that he signed the cover, right under the words, "Holy Bible?" Let's say he did it in ignorance, like a child. Let me tell you something: Even as a child, I knew the Bible was a holy book. Even as a child, when I scribbled on anything, I never would have thought to scribble on a Bible. There is something very disturbing about someone who would put their name on the front of a Bible, as if to replace the One who authored it.

I'm not a perfect person. I freely admit to you: I don't stay in the Word as regularly as I should. The past two years have taken a toll on me spiritually. I've written about this before. But when I saw the photos of the signatures on the Bibles, I grieved. I grieved for those who have sold their souls to their "Nero," abandoning what they know to be truth. I grieved for those who never bothered to read their Bibles and cast them so dismissively away, not realizing they were handing away the most precious treasure for their souls.

And I grieved with God. Yes. I grieved with God.

The betrayal.

To hand your Bible over for an idol to autograph.

The mind reels.

"Thou shalt have no other gods before me."~ Exodus 20:3 / Deuteronomy 5:7

Sunday, February 17, 2019

Church-less, In the Age of Trump

Has it been nearly a year-and-a-half since my last post?

I suppose that the Age of Trump has a lot to do with that. It's Sunday morning, a soggy-icy-rain February day, with slate skies that that reflect my soul.

We are not at church this morning.

You know, I used to be one of those people who said, "It doesn't matter what people do or say -- I hold onto my belief because I know God's goodness, and that's enough for me." Although that is still true, I find that as the Trump presidency drags on and the country careens into more and more hateful dialogue, even my relationship with God has become quiet. I still am a believer. I still know He has His hand on my life. But it's as if we're in a long road trip together, and we've hit a stretch through one of those Midwestern states ... You know what I'm talking about if you've ever been on one of these road trips ... The road stretches through an endless line of cornfields, and all you can see ahead of you is a "tunnel" through corn stalks. You sit side by side in the car, wondering when this part of the journey will be over, and there is no conversation and no desire for one. It's silent companionship, and the two of you are disconnected from the rest of the world. Just a stretch of cornfields, all around, walling you in.

That's how it feels for me.

Before the election, I had no idea how much people who claimed to be "Christians" espoused such racism, such rancor, such judgment, such hypocrisy. After the election, my eyes were opened, and I couldn't bring myself to sit next to them in pews on Sunday mornings.

My son and I found a different church, one that served the needs of the poor. Until four months ago, we were regular attendees ... but I started feeling myself pulling away emotionally from even that group. It's a long story, one that doesn't need to be hashed out here, but once again, I felt that people were not what they purported to be.

I still take my son to a youth group meeting mid-week, at his request. But Sunday morning comes along, and I feel completely alienated, flat, and empty. In short, I'm spiritually depressed. I'm hungry for the Word. I'm thirsty for a dissection of Scripture, for an exchange of prayer requests and communing, for kind words and affirmation. Church holds none of those things for me anymore. Church for me has become more isolating than if I don't even attend.

Why am I writing all of this and sharing these dismal thoughts?

I guess part of the reason is that if you're also alienated from church due to what has happened in the country and the "evangelicals" behind it ... you're not alone. I am chief among you. I want you to know that there are more "islands" of us out there in this sea of distrust and division.

The other reason is that I want to put these words in a tangible format. Because someday, all of this will be a faint memory. Someday, I'll pull up this blog entry and think to myself, "How could I even have been in that place?" I have found in life that when we are faced with a situation that seems hopeless or sad, it's temporary. But it also helps in the good times to look back on times like these for perspective, insight, and understanding of where we've been, how far we've come, and where we're going.

Which leads me to my last point ... What's next for believers in this era of Trump? I'm not talking about people who support the racist regime that has taken over the White House. I'm talking about believers who read the Scriptures and know that God says we're supposed to love our neighbors as ourselves -- and that if we claim to love God and hate another, we're liars. I'm talking to you, if you're in that category. What's next for us?

Well, for me, I'm tying a knot and holding on to my faith. I will not give up looking for a place where people practice what they preach, even in blood-red Kentucky. I will remember that there have been millions who have gone before me and felt isolated and alone in their belief. I will reflect on the prophets who lived in a sea of hypocrites ... people like Elijah. People like Jeremiah. They, too, were alone, and yet they did not give up in their hope and faith in God.

As much as it depends on Him who is able to "keep us from falling," I will do the same. I do not know what our future will bring as a country. I know that I don't trust people in churches anymore at this point. But I know I can trust the One who died for me, who forgives my sins, who knows my heart, and who will comfort me on days when the sky is slate gray, icy rain covers the tree branches ... and I sit at home alone, longing for a time to return when Sunday morning once again means being among people who know Him, too.