Filling freezers, Statistics, Glass Houses and ‘Why do we want to believe in miracles?’

March 27, 2020March 27, 2020Splsh4Ripls10 Comments

Forty hours ago I logged out of Facebook and asked Tim to reset my password. He did. And I don’t have it. So I can only go on when he signs me in. I then went to WordPress and relinked my blog to my FB account so that I can post blogs automatically. While I do not spend a lot of time on FB, most days, it is easy to get caught up in the opinions and debates of current events. Some of that is good. Some of it is not. All of it is time consuming. And the fallout of various aspects is more than I have energy for in the middle of finishing up my PhD coursework.

Since posting it I have managed to squeeze an 836 pound beef in our freezer, canned 14 jars of stewing beef, and completed my final quiz for my Statistics course. (This beef will be shared, not hoarded. In fact, about 20 pounds already left the house this morning. And, for the record, it was ordered prior to this ‘craziness’ going on). Now I’m working on my final paper for Stats course, and am about to start my final course, a reading course and research project to be completed between now and August. And then comprehensive exams. They will be the ‘make it or break it’ of my degree. The aftermath of medication last year, combined with a concussion after being rear-ended at 100km/h (65 m/hr) have made memory work a challenge. Exams require strong memory capabilities, or the determination to get everything into longterm. For stats, I overcame this by rewatching class lectures between 2 and four times, and rewriting notes 3 to five times. It has been extremely time consuming!

As I was doing all of these things, I’ve been contemplating why we humans reach for miracles. More specifically, why do I? I’ll admit, apart from taking Bible stories at face value, I’ve not seen many miracles and used to be a skeptic. And then one day a friend who knew I was having a lot of issues with my one knee ‘giving out’, and accompanying pain, called me up and invited me to church. We’re having a healing service, she said, and I think you should be there. I agreed, because she is my friend.

Nothing wonky happened. But I did muster the courage to ask for prayer, and a group of strangers gathered round me, and prayed. The problem left and never came back. That was about 14 years ago.

I am one of those who gets to have a colonoscopy ever 5 years. It started first in my 20’s, when I had significant rectal bleeding with no explanation. After the colonoscopy showed nothing, the specialist chalked it up to stress. That made sense. I was just starting to acknowledge and work through the trauma of my childhood. Nothing more was done.

In my 30’s, they started with the scopes every 5 years. Just keeping an eye on things after weeks of the same issues. At one point, I believe it was two weeks into another round of bleeding, we had a worship night. I had my eyes closed, hands raised, and when I opened my eyes i was surprised (and deeply moved) to be surrounded by a handful of individuals, including one of our elders, praying over me. A woman, who had no idea what was going on with my health, was among them. She placed her hand on my abdomen and began to pray. As she did so, I just knew the bleeding had stopped. That was around ten years ago. The bleeding has never happened again.

Were these miracle healings? Frankly, I don’t care what they were. I’m thankful for the outcome. Even so, I like to keep one foot firmly planted in the practical and scientific realities of this present world, while keeping the other firmly planted in the mystery of God and the spiritual realities that we cannot fully grasp. It keeps my faith in balance and rooted in the eternal, not the temporal. It helps me live in a place of trusting God, in the unknown.

And maybe seeing a loved one fighting a fierce battle with cancer right now, forces me to grapple with the absence of such mysteries as miracles. I have prayed. I have wept. I have tried to hold onto a fragment of faith in the miraculous, when the practical screams it is a lie. When the fight against cancer is a quiet, persistent evidence of the absence of miracles. And when faith in God’s goodness boils down to knowing, “Even now. Even here. Even in this, He is good.” And to somehow reconcile myself with that certainty, when there is no evidence that good can or will be done in a given circumstance.

Maybe, hearing another’s ‘miracle’ offers us some borrowed hope in a place or circumstance destitute of such hope. It is a reminder that God is sovereign and He is goodness. It is the very essence of His nature. And where no miracle is granted to the naked eye, a greater miracle, reserved for the spirit to see, is born.

With the passing of time, my world has become more and more that of ‘living in a glass house’, thanks to my work and how public it is. I am ok with that, for the most part, as I have nothing to hide. I am human. When I fail, I will apologize. I aim for due diligence, and throwing in disclaimers in my writings, and apologize if I have erred. It’s who I am.

However, the standard of perfection that is required to function within Christian context is one to which I cannot live up. I never have. I never will. It has been months of ‘off and on’ discussions with Tim, wondering how long I can do what I do, within the context and ‘audience’ of my work; conservative Anabaptists and ex-conservative Anabaptists. I’ve lived simultaneously the past four years in another (secular) world (university) that is, ironically, far more grace-filled. It is strange to say that out loud, but it is true. This contradiction has been challenging to process. It is in university I was trained to be culturally sensitive and separate the horror of sexual abuse I encounter from the Anabaptist culture in which it takes place. It is in university I was trained on Restorative Justice practices (that strangely echo the teachings of Jesus). It is in university I was taught to separate the crime from the criminal and remove crime labels from their identity. It is in university I learned to extend grace to myself, when profs would say, repeatedly, “Trudy, you don’t have to be perfect”, and “It’s ok to make a mistake.” Most of my profs have said that, and several have gone above and beyond, entering into my world, my life, my story in ways that few people ever have. I never looked for it, and didn’t even realize how much that can do for a person, other than seeing what it did for others when I entered in. One prof (not a believer) in particular, sat with me for more hours than I can keep track of, and would say, “Someone has His hand on you.” I understand why people are drawn away from religion.

I could now do a list of things that do not align with Christian values, but I won’t, because I have no expectation that a secular entity will uphold my Christian values. Instead, I will thank God that He reveals His kind heart through those who do not believe. I will thank Him that He has protected my faith in Him, in spite of … in spite of so many things, even while He is eerily silent in the space of other prayers that are wanting in answers.

Today, while miracles are glaringly absent in the wilderness of many of my prayers, I will grieve those disappointments while holding on to this one thing: God is a God of miracles. Even if the only miracle is that I (or you) can somehow hold on to Him and embrace hope in spaces and experiences that, humanly speaking, should drive us to cynicism, atheism and rejecting God.

Maybe, at the end of the day, that is the greatest miracle. To live daily finding joy and hope in God. That my heart has not grown cynical, in spite of daily reminders that incredible evil lurks ‘among God’s people’ (along with goodness). To separate that evil from God and see Him is good and kind, and to separate that evil from the ‘personhood’ of the evildoer and still see him/her as holding value and being worthy of kind treatment (albeit good ad firm too). These are miracles of another sort.

I will trust Him as I process things what seem upside down in my world. Harsh judgement from the religious, Christ-like kindness from unbelieving professors and peers, sexual abuse blithely brushed off in religious community where children should be safe, and much more.

Because the thing about miracles is that they don’t make sense. They are the unexpected outcomes. So I will continue to believe that my God is a miracle working God.

As for Facebook… for now I will likely pop in from time to time. I care deeply about my friends. Hundred and hundreds of the 5000 are familiar to me. Many have engaged privately, so that you come to mind even in my day-to-day-not-on-Facebook work and world. You are not just ‘one of many’. Your wellbeing, each one of you, matters to me. That does not change with my absence from Facebook. Maybe I’ll be back one day. Maybe sooner, maybe later. Or maybe I will find the world of real interactions is much more life-giving without it, even in a world suspended in time, with no gatherings. Either way, I am taking this time to be thoughtful, to live with grace, and to continue to seek the heart of God, and let Him seek mine. The processing of experience is my responsibility. The outcome of things that come into my life, good or bad, invited or not, is my responsibility.

And I choose redemption and grace.

As always…

Much love,
Trudy

© Trudy Metzger 2020

Update on Mennonite man miraculously healed in Tanzania

March 25, 2020March 25, 2020Splsh4Ripls

A happy Thursday (Edit:…just kidding… it’s Wednesday! this sitting at home thing…!) to you all! What a delight it is to be alive! To see the sunshine, and hear the birds sing! I love these things at any time — and even the snow that many abhor — but especially now, when the world looks upside down. To see that God’s creation still sings and shines, that makes my heart happy!

And I have no doubt that is how Jason and Mel Hunt and their family feel, in Tanzania. A few days ago I shared the story of Jason collapsing, believing he was at the end, only to miraculously revive again. That is one of the best things I had heard in a week or two, so I shared it. I have no regrets about sharing his testimony of unexpected healing. It is truly good news.

My only regret , and there was one… though I don’t like that word, came when friends cautioned that many will take his experience as ‘the cure‘ and act irresponsibly because of it. I had not thought of that, and at first thought my friends were overreacting and their concern not warranted. Especially given I had put in a disclaimer that I was *not* promoting it as a cure, but rather because it seemed to me a story of hope in the midst of tragic times. Nonetheless, I listened to their cautions and edited the post, removing anything that might hint at the experience being touted as a cure.

Others were less gracious and said he is a liar, to declare so boldly he had COVID-19 without test results. My response immediately to that criticism was that this does not make him a liar; it makes him overly enthusiastic.

Then, yesterday toward evening, I received word that test results for COVID-19 came back negative for their family. (Keep his wife and daughter in your prayers. Last I hear, yesterday night, they are still sick and in need of prayer). This means he did not likely have COVID-19 in the first place. The post was causing enough of a stir that I decided to remove it until such a time as I had time to edit out any ‘offending parts’. This is something I have rarely done, but in the interest of avoiding unnecessary offence, I removed the post entirely.

We can somewhat assume the tests are conclusive and he likely did not have COVID-19. But that is not really the bottom line, and his overstatement is not the greatest tragedy in the world.

It is only a tragedy that he was too sure of himself if:

he is not humble enough to learn from it. Otherwise, is is an incredible learning experience, not only for him but for all of us, me included. Or maybe especially me and him, but I think all of us.
the church has no grace for a testimony that is powerful but overly enthusiastic and certain of details that were not relevant to the miraculous outcome. To write off such a profound recovery because the recipient is human — as are we all — is to limit the work of Christ among humans. It means I can only see Him if you are more/less perfect. If I took that approach, given the hell and horror I see in Christian community, I would have turned to atheism long ago.

Before posting the original story I checked into the legitimacy of the claims, and again numerous times since. I added a disclaimer in the original blog, and I would have been wise to edit out any reference to COVID-19. In that I erred. Yet, I had and still have every reason to believe that the story told, happened as told.

In spite of the kerfluffle and humanity of his way of verbalizing it, I am no less amazed by God, and I think no less of Jason for it.

If there is not grace for his humanity, then the church has nothing left to offer the world. Nothing. Because that’s who Jesus is.

I have said many times, there is grace enough for the vilest sinner (including sex offenders) and if they are truly repentant they can receive that grace. I believe that with all my heart. (That does not equate to giving sex offenders free regn under the guise of forgiveness, but that’s another topic for another day).

What has baffled me in this is that it seems there is less grace for a man who is overconfident in a medical self-diagnosis and includes it in his testimony, than there is for the sex offender who sheds a few tears and does not change his ways. Surely, surely, there is grace for both, but especially in a case of ‘intending no harm or sin’ in the process.

I do not regret telling the story. If I did not think we can learn from it, then I would have regrets. I hope and pray that we can see past the humanity and see Jesus at work among us. If we can’t see Him in our collective brokenness, what have we got — what has Jesus got — that will bring any measure of peace and wholeness to us and those around us?

Having removed the original post, here is the portion of his testimony that does not make any assumptions about what his illness was. Praise Jesus!

Last night as I desperately fought for breath to live, I just kept stumbling through the house around the fireplace and kitchen trying to hang on to a measure of breath. The rest were holding me up, crying and praying, (and probably wondering who was going to cart my body out to the coffee field). Finally at 3am I was really fading so wheezed out my goodbyes as I slumped up against the fireplace. I told them no one was to do mouth to mouth on me because I didn’t want the infection to increase in their lungs. As I sat there fading out to everyone’s amazement I got so hot from the fire at my back that I started to sweat buckets and my lungs suddenly started opening up and oxygen came into my lungs. God intervened.

[…]

The improvements over the last few hours has been exponential. Even Mel has made incredible progress. God is intervening.

[…]

I will mention the whole household came down with symptoms today. And the whole household has made exponential gains in the last eight hours. Most are sleeping peacefully now. […] We need to run forth knowing that love will always conquer fear.

[…]

All the prayers are being answered.

*****

My prayer is that you all stay safe and healthy, and if your health has been compromised, that God will heal and restore you.

Remember, God is kind.

As always…

With love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger

Homeless Hearts, Living The Gospel of Jesus & Healing from Abuse

November 10, 2015November 10, 2015Splsh4Ripls9 Comments

“I had a rather exciting event,” I said to Tim, soon after walking into the kitchen, having returned a bit later than planned. “And it cost me just over $14!” I added a bit later.

“Let me guess,” he said… “You met a homeless person and took them out for a meal?”

“Ah, you know me too well!” I answered. “But you’ll have to wait until I write a blog about it to find out if you are right.”

*****

She was short and hunched over, at the far side of the register, wearing an old coat, multiple clothing items, layered. Unkempt her framed her wrinkled face and empty eyes spoke of hard times. Her crooked fingers fumbled awkwardly with something.

A man stood beside her, younger and more put together, bagging a few grocery items. I wondered at the unlikely pair, as they stood there in close proximity. And then he walked away, leaving her behind. That’s when I realized they were not together, and with him gone, I saw her more clearly. She fumbled with money; several stacks of coins were held together by plastic wrap, others were loose in a plastic bag. In front of her lay her meager purchases; a bit of fresh fruit and not much else.

The girl between us, young–maybe in her early to mid twenties–had purple hair, multiple piercings and gorgeous eyes and smile. A smile she had shared generously when I first appeared behind her. She reminded me of our daughter’s one friend; sweet, yet edgy, and all around a likable girl. She looked at the old lady fumbling with her coins, not appearing the least bit impatient.

The cashier a middle-aged woman with compassionate expression, watched too. She repeated the amount the old woman owed her. It was $14 and change.

The scene unfolded quickly; much more so than writing it out or reading it. And in that moment, when the clerk told her what she owed, I realized the little old woman was trying to scrounge together a few dollars for groceries. Until that moment I thought she was tucking things away, trying to get her money in place.

“Excuse me,” I said to the cashier, “is she trying to pull together enough money to pay for her groceries?” The cashier nodded, “Yes.” The young girl looked at me quizzically. “I would like to pay for that,” I said. It wasn’t some halo moment, and didn’t feel like a big deal, really. It just popped out of my mouth, and the compassion I felt when I said it, was familiar.

I was four again, and mom was in the house with not enough groceries to make a decent meal… then five and the Mexican gypsies appeared, holding out empty bowls, begging for soup. We had so little, still my mother with a bit of fear and fretting offered them each a ladle of her hard work; our meal. Those things stay fresh in the memory forever. And they always come back in moments like this, or when I see a homeless person begging. And I don’t really care at that moment how they got there, and why they are in such a destitute place. I just care that they know someone cares, and I do something if I can.

The cashier looked momentarily shocked. “You’re sure?” she asked.

“Yes please,” I said. “I’d like to do that.”

The old woman shuffled over then, holding out her fistful of money, just as I prepared to insert my card, and with the cashier trying to explain, “She’s paying for you.” The old woman couldn’t speak English and stared in bewilderment, eyes squinting at me. I motioned to her groceries, pointed to myself and said, “I will pay.” She raised her hands in question, as if to ask a wordless ‘why’. And I couldn’t explain, so I put my hand on my heart. She did it again, and I put my arm around her shoulder and said, “Merry Christmas”. It was all I could think to say that she might understand as a gift. Still she squinted at me.

The debit machine acted up and things were taking a bit longer. I looked at the pretty young girl with the purple hair, who was next in line between us and said, in true Canadian style, “I’m sorry.”

She put her hand on her heart then, and said, “Oh no! Please…” Not knowing what to say, but clearly not bothered by the disruption.

The old lady then tried to hand me her money, but I pointed to her and said she should keep it. She still said nothing, but shuffled back the her bags. And I returned to my place in line and started to put my groceries on the conveyor. I heard the clerk ask, “Are you okay? Are you crying?” And I looked up to see tears in the cashier’s eyes, the young girl choking with emotion, saying she was okay, and a little old woman still staring at me with disbelief in her squinted eyes.

She shuffled out the door, tears in her eyes too, and I blew her a kiss and said, “bless you”, because I didn’t know what else to say or do as she waved one gentle, timid farewell. And the emotion hit me deep inside for a moment, remembering that time long ago.

I don’t know who said what, but somehow between the cashier and the young girl, they started talking to me, and it all took me off guard. Finally the cashier asked, “Do you know her” And my answer was, “No. I don’t know her. But I know about poverty.” And they asked if I had been ‘like that’–presuming they meant homeless–and I said, “No. But my parents….”

I didn’t go into any detail beyond that, but knew my parents had experienced such desperate times that they had lived in a barn with missing barn boards when my second oldest sister–first daughter of dad’s second marriage–was born. Times were hard, many times, in childhood.

The young girl looked at me, immediately after paying, placed her hand on my arm and said, “Thank you for making my day!”

It all happened ‘without a thought’, really, and kind of made my day too. There was the subconscious awareness that Jesus has really blessed my life, and if I can bring practical love into one life, now and then, I am honoured. And I expect this woman, like Rick, another homeless ‘friend’ I’ve met several times in Kitchener, will wander through my heart from time to time for many years to come. And I will pray for her just like I pray for Rick, not out of religious duty, but a sense of deep personal gratitude for the goodness of God in my life.

And it strikes me that as individuals who have suffered sexual abuse we often ‘fumble through our bags, and wallets and paraphernalia’, trying to pull together enough resources to survive. We see it in front of us, the nutrition we need to survive and grow strong, but most of the time we haven’t the wherewithal to acquire it on our own. So we pull together what little we have, and pull through another day, just getting by emotionally.

Then, one day, someone sees our struggle and looks beyond the exterior, which can be quite unpleasant and certainly in many layers, and they reach out to meet our need. We awkwardly accept, feeling unworthy but deeply moved by the compassion. And we walk away from those moments, recognizing we have been forever changed.