The Yoke of the Kingdom

Shema Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad. Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.

So begins the Shema, the prayer that devout Jews pray each morning and each evening, day after day, world without end.

I’m not Jewish. I suppose, in a sense, this prayer should have no great meaning in my spiritual life, but on certain occasions and in particular seasons, it doggedly hounds my steps—and today is one of those days.

There are three parts, but it’s the first (Deut. 6:4-9) that sticks with me. To paraphrase:

Hear this (and make it real in your life). The Lord is one. Sovereign. Just as He is one, love Him with all your heart—soul—might—everything. Imprint these words on the deepest part of your being—make them the truest part of your existence. Teach them, and speak of them, and think of them in all that you do. Don’t give future generations the opportunity to forget. And let these words be so much a part of your world that they show up even in the external elements of your life (your home, your clothing, etc.).

(Admittedly, a loose translation for the sake of emphasis. You get the point.)

The rabbis call this first part of the Shema the taking on of the yoke of the malchut shamayim, the kingdom of heaven. It is not something that is lightly done. Some find it necessary to close their eyes as they pray this part of the prayer. Most, if not all, advocate cultivating of a certain state of the heart and mind that is focused fully toward God before uttering the words. Why? Because it’s that important. It’s the daily choice: You are my God, and I will be counted among Your people.

As I said before, I’m not Jewish. But something about this seems so right. So natural. There are moments when this prayer feels closer than anything else my lips might knowingly wish to whisper.

Shema Yisrael….

Yet what does it mean to take on the yoke of the kingdom? I’ve seldom found much identification with the yoke image, truth be told. It appears in my mind’s eye as a blistering summer day, a man dripping with sweat, and two dirty, brown oxen, shouldering the burden of a plough as it rips through dry and cracking earth. Not particularly enticing.

And the kingdom? Is it as heavy as the plough, dragging through the untamed ground? And where is it? Here? Somewhere else? Not to mention the exhausting debate in theological circles between the “already” and the “not yet.”

Sifre Deuteronomy tells us, “Receive upon yourselves the kingdom of heaven and reconcile yourselves one with the other in the fear of heaven and conduct yourselves toward one another in loving kindness” (323). I like this because it makes the kingdom seem like a practical thing—something I can be part of.

God’s people, doing God’s will in the earth. Helping. Loving. This is the work of the kingdom.

To take up this yoke is to choose each day whom you will serve. In a sense, I almost don’t think it matters whether you’re Jewish or Catholic or Protestant—the act is the same.

One God. One kingdom. The submission of your life to the work of God in the earth (as it is in heaven).

Shema Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad. V’ahavta eit Adonai elohecha b'chawl l'vav'cha, u'vchawl nafsh'cha, uv'chawl m'odecha.

With all that I am, let it be.

On Rediscovering Purpose

C. S. Lewis and his friends have captured me once again. And, oh, how I have missed them.

This weekend, I had the privilege of participating in the 14th annual C. S. Lewis and the Inklings Society conference. I almost wasn't going to, you know. I fought it--hard--really, I did. Although I'd considered the possibility of attending the conference as soon as I heard that it would be held in Tulsa, I was fairly positive that there was no possible way that I could write and present a paper myself. Jumping back into grad school this semester after nearly 2 years off has been enough of a battle--there was nothing more that I could give, I was convinced.

Or perhaps nothing more that I wasn't afraid to give.

Of course, my former boss and coordinator of the conference saw things a bit differently. Time after time, he would ask me if I was presenting a paper. I'd decline, and he'd ask again. Pushing, always pushing. But he's allowed to do that. One of the few.

So, of course, I finally caved. "All right," I said. "You win. I'll present something." Knowing that I'd done some previous research on the Arthurian imagery in That Hideous Strength, I submitted a title and hoped for the best.

And, friends, it was meant to be. After six years of wondering, Oh, God, WHY seminary? and Why do I bother with anything academic in a society where getting a job in the Humanities is hardly a "good return on investment"?, I may finally have reached a place where everything makes sense again.

I found myself among friends, fellow scholars and lovers of literature who adored the same books I adored, and what's more, had things to say about these books and writers that I had never even considered. Every presentation, even the mediocre ones, nudged me in the direction of Purpose (yes, capital P).

This is it, I kept thinking. This is where my heart lies. These are the people I want in my world; this is the study I am meant to do. Even if it's not full-time. Even if my contributions are miniscule in light of the greater corpus. This is where I am meant to be.

I find myself particularly thankful for one of our keynote speakers, Andrew Lazo, whose brilliant talks on Till We Have Faces reminded me not only of all the things I have loved and missed about literature (and the Inklings in particular), but also that there really are other people out there who understand.

I feel a bit like Moses, after having come down from the mountaintop. My face is radiant--I'm certain of it--and after so very long, I carry words.

Tomorrow will be tomorrow, creeping in its petty pace towards who-knows-what. I know that. I'm ok with that. Today, I possess the grace to believe that all this sound and fury really does signify something. And, for today, it's enough.

The January Experiment

I didn't intend to set myself up as a sort of human lab rat, but in retrospect, I suppose that's what happened. When I left for my Christmas vacation, I had come off a couple months of intense stress that, quite frankly, I hadn't managed all that well. I had one goal (other than seeing my family): I was going to rest and de-stress and become human again.

What I didn't count on was my body turning against me.

Although I did get plenty of rest, started exercising again, and ate fairly well (considering), my digestive system decided that it was going to react unkindly to virtually everything that I ate or drank over a number of days.

I suppose I should be thankful for this, since it proved to be the impetus for making a lot of healthy life changes that likely wouldn't have stuck, otherwise.

In the wake of barely eating on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day, it became clear that whatever I was eating/drinking was completely wrong. It was time to start from scratch. Thus began the January Experiment.

The Experiment included the following official goals: to abstain completely from coffee, pop, and fast food; to watch my caloric intake; and to implement a workout program.

I am pleased to report that not only did I succeed in all of these for the month of January, but I now feel better than I have in a long time. Truth be told, I'm not sure I want to switch back from anything that I started in the January Experiment.

I didn't want to post anything on Facebook or tell very many people about the Experiment because I didn't want it to be just another resolution. To me, there is a distinct difference between an experiment and a resolution: an experiment has a clearly defined time frame, whereas a resolution is by nature meant to be infinite.

But I'm pleased and proud at having succeeded for a month on the January Experiment. And I'm thrilled at the money I've saved (which is now being applied to extra payments toward my car).

I think we often tell ourselves that we can't live a certain way because it's too hard. It's too hard to give up fast food and actually eat at home. It's too hard to work out when you're tired after a long day. It's too hard to overcome a caffeine addiction.

But you know what? Tonight, on the news, in the wake of a blizzard, I saw several individuals interviewed who had braved the near-impassible roads for the sake of obtaining a caffeine fix from a local gas station. And I realized: there, but for the January Experiment, go I.

Those Pesky Stalker Credit Card Companies

I don't know what it is these days, but credit card companies are really starting to annoy me. The problem? They're needy--nay, desperate--like that guy you can never get rid of because he can't take no for an answer.

First, it was Chase. Freedom. Blueprint. I forget what else. Junk mail every single day, promising something, showcasing another. A few advertisements now and then, I could understand, but we've reached the point of mailbox saturation.

More recently, it's one of my own credit card companies. They keep promising that if I'll sign up for certain things, they'll pay me a certain higher cash-back bonus than they typically do. And they keep trying to entice me to use their card more often because I might win a million dollars in a drawing.

Ok, I get the angle. If they can get their customers motivated to use their card more, a couple things happen that benefit them. First, they earn a chunk of change from each business where the card is run. Second, they bet on my paying them interest, or worse, a late fee (two bets which, thankfully, with me, they will lose!).

But what particularly irks me is that they showcase their marketing in a way that actually catches me for a moment and makes me think I want them. Who doesn't want a better chance to win a million dollars? Who doesn't want a higher cash-back reward? Who doesn't want a plan that helps them automatically save when they spend? Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

How very easy it is to whip out the plastic time and again, all for the sake of earning more free money.

Well, I'm tired of hearing about it--I'm tired of my card company--and most of all, I'm tired of Chase and its aggressive marketing. Buzz off, credit cards! It's not you; it's me.

Things We Carry

It is a little known fact, though no less true for its obscurity, that I have a secret fear of owning anything that I cannot myself carry.

It is completely unfounded and irrational, and try as I might, I have been unable to deduce the true motivation behind this feeling. It remains, this nagging inner longing to be rid of all things that cannot be picked up in a moment and hauled off to someplace new.

You would think that this would mean that I constantly move around, but I don't. I stay--it is my all too frequent mode of operation--and often I stay wherever I stay far longer than I probably should. But mostly, I think I stay because I tell myself that I can leave anytime, knowing, of course that leaving would require me to manage those things that can and cannot be carried.

Lately, this has come to mind because I am trying to sell a television. It is a perfectly fine television but for two minor flaws: (1) I do not use it, and (2) it is too big, bulky, and heavy for me to carry by myself. (The latter, of course, being its primary downside.)

This past summer, I read The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, and one of its section titles is "The Things We Carried." For some reason, this resonates within me when I begin to consider my own uncanny fear.

In the book, the Price family is flying to Africa because the father is determined to be a missionary. As the family prepares for the flight, they realize very quickly that the amount of luggage that they can take with them is extremely limited. They begin to figure out ways around this: wearing multiple dresses on top of each other, sewing scissors and thimbles into their clothing (ah, for the days before mad TSA screenings!), and stuffing items into their pockets and handbags. They carry their lives with them to Africa--or so they think.

And then, in well-crafted irony, they gradually begin to realize that all of the things they thought they couldn't live without are completely unsuited to their new lives. So many things they carried with them--all for nothing.

I think about that when I think about my own possessions, and I wonder whether there is any meaning at all to be found in having things--in having big things--in having heavy things--in having anything at all that cannot be carried.

Perhaps there is no difference between the things we carry and the things we cannot, only the realization that both share the same quality of meaninglessness.

Or perhaps I am just afraid to put down roots.

Valentine's Day

I watched the movie Valentine's Day this evening--because why NOT make yourself depressed about being single in November as well as February, right? Sigh.

Rilke says, "I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: that each protects the solitude of the other." I'm not entirely sure what he meant by that, but I envy him if he ever found someone to fulfill that expectation.

These two seemingly unrelated statements exemplify the gap between the real and the ideal.

Sometimes I think I hope too hard for something that doesn't exist.

The World Is Too Much With Us

It's too much, you know. And it all closes in. Or maybe we cause it to close in--that's the part that's less than clear and all too distressing. We spin ourselves in circles, busy with doing, building, earning--but what good is any of it?

Look at what we're losing: the sky, the sea, the feeling that you get when your heart swells because you're looking at something so beautiful that your soul can't endure it.

We don't see things anymore. We just do what we do, oblivious.

I long for my eyes to be opened so I can see things the way they were before everything got so busy, so full. I want to find my eyes wide with wonder at the large-scale majesty of it all. I want to imagine that the sea is indeed its own living force, that it is called to motion or to stillness by the sound of the mighty Triton's horn. I want to believe that if I watched long enough, the god of the sea would arise triumphant from the waves. But I don't believe these things. What I believe is, alas, far too predictable and far too small.

If I saw the world through eyes that valued the strength, power, and beauty that I observed, maybe things would matter again. These things make the world big again, wild, free. Not the ever-shrinking sink-hole that seems to surround me.

The world really is too much with us.... (Thinking of you, Wordsworth.)