It takes me a long time to solve a problem that I don't think I have.

This morning I put on one of my oldest, heaviest sweaters.  It’s a name brand.  It was too pricey years ago when I bought it, but I was on vacation with the girls in Seattle, so I justified the cost as a once-in-a-lifetime purchase, a practical souvenir.  Then too, I often think pricey translates into good quality; in sweater language, that means warmth.  And this brand name is widely acknowledged as synonymous with style.  On a lovely summer day, the off-the-shoulder sleeves, draping hood, and buttonless, open front seemed unique and unusual in a good sort of way, but on more than one cold winter morning since, I’ve muttered to myself, “what-were-they-thinking?”  Or maybe, ‘what-was-I-thinking?’ when I bought this thing.  It’s loose and blanket like.  It’s more of a wrap than a cardigan.  It’s impossible to wear under a jacket.  I can’t add enough pins to keep it closed against a draft.  And yet, this morning, when the temps were dropping like the stock market and the winds were swirling like controversy, I put it on again and tried to pull it tight.

I told myself that it’s warm, stylish, and it matches the new socks I just got for Christmas.  All good.  Then I swiped my fingers back and forth in a tin of old brooches hoping to find a particularly large pin I remember seeing one time.  In luck.  Found it.  Looking in the bathroom mirror, I began the puzzle of where to place it.  I could feel the shoulder seams pressing on my forearms.  I wished they didn’t do that, but pulling the shoulders in place would leave gobs of knitted material in front.  I knew because I had done that a qua-zillion times before.  I glanced up to see the look on my face, like, ‘this is never going to work. Why do I bother?’ And then, the next moment, for no reason, I simply pulled one side across the other.  I didn’t try to make the edges meet, like I had done a qua-zillion times before.  I simply pulled the right front over top of the left front and, with inspired excitement, pinned it there!  Shoulders were in place.  Front was smooth and covered.  The hood rested lightly on the back of my neck.  It may have even sighed.  I think I heard it whisper, “finally.”  Years.  Seriously, for years I have been struggling with this sweater.  I grappled with the push and pull of it, a sweater that reminded me of good times with my grown girls, and yet, that I paid too much for, and isn’t even my color — did I mention that earlier?  And now, here I am sitting on my couch in my cozy home in the wintry woods, drinking hot coffee, and feeling smug in my well-fitting sweater.   

Did I say smug?  I meant snug.  I should not be smug.  Far from smug, way far out, where smug borders on ridiculous.  Not fun territory, but, unfortunately, rather familiar to me.  Sipping my strong coffee, I think this is what I’ve learned:  it takes me a long time to solve a problem I don’t think I have.  Oh, I had a problem with the sweater, but all along, for a long, long time, I assumed the problem was the designer’s stretch for something novel to present, or that it was the grandiose attitude of the retail brand that they could put their name on anything and it would sell, or there was an outside chance that, perhaps, I had made a rash decision, but surely one that was understandable because, hey, I was on a sentimental vacation with my daughters.  All of the above are the real answers to ‘what was I thinking?’  Now, I’m wondering what other problems I assume are someone else’s fault that maybe I can fix by making an adjustment myself. 

          When preparing to preach recently, I came across some well-meaning followers of our Lord responding to critical situations in inappropriate ways, ways that required correction.  When Jesus is arrested, Peter brandishes a sword in defense, slashing off Malcus’ ear.  Perhaps his first instinct was to open up a window of opportunity for Jesus to escape into the darkness?  I don’t know.  That would be a swift-thinking, logical reaction, however.  But it would not take into account Jesus’ own descriptions of what he must face.  It would not be informed by what we know of Jesus’ character, that he is not one to hide in darkness, but rather that he boldly brings light.  So while it seemed good at the moment, perhaps, to Peter, it wasn’t connected to Christ.  Amazingly, in the midst of the scuffle, in the high stakes of that moment, Jesus takes the time to rebuke Peter and set him straight. This must be important. 

Likewise, Paul, a converted and convinced follower of our Lord, stops in Caesarea on his way to Jerusalem.  There, Agabus, God’s prophet whose credibility has already been established earlier, demonstrates how Paul will be taken and bound when he arrives at his destination.  On the basis of this prophecy, faithful Caesareans urge Paul not to go a step further.  Again, this sounds both logical and responsible.  But Paul corrects them despite their heart-felt arguments: “Why are you weeping and breaking my heart?  I am ready not only to be bound, but also to die in Jerusalem for the name of the Lord Jesus,” (Acts 21: 11).  It’s a conversation-stopper, but more than that, it’s a perspective-righter. 

God has given some persons very acute minds, minds that research, analyze, formulate, and articulate statements that are both persuasive and impressive.  He has called some of these to leadership in the church.  Many persons are inclined to nod as they listen to such arguments, following their logic and resonating with the issue they address.  The persuaders.  The persuaded.  I've met these persons often and I find both  difficult to talk with. 

I read one such persuasive argument in a recent blog written by a colleague who claims we are not able to find the unity we long for and pray for because we do not agree on the essential elements on which unity is to be based.  It was a persuasive argument and, to my mind, quite airtight.  Yet, I do not believe it is true.  I have no debate.  I offer no anecdotal evidence otherwise.  My concern is that the argument wields fear instead of the two-edged sword I am more familiar with.     

As Christians we need to be careful that we advise on the basis of God’s will, humbly as we understand it from God’s Word, and that we follow advisers that we recognize to be following Christ.  That we do not follow those who counsel us on the basis of sharp, even brilliant, analysis if it capitalizes on fear, any more than we would follow those who offer tender encouragement if it requires a naïve view of security on our part.   Survival on this earth is not an ultimate Christian goal.  Seeking God’s will is.

In the midst of complicated decisions and in the malaise of troubling times, I am all the more earnest about listening for, watching for, waiting for the wisdom of the mature Christian person of faith. I long to hear that perspective in every small group, every board meeting, every spoken prayer, every sermon.  It’s that essential.

Jesus says:  “Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?” (John 18:11).  It’s a rhetorical statement, for what possible faithful answer could be considered as an alternative?  Yet, it  requires time spent with God and a willingness to act on what we trust to be true.

And – one more thing --sometimes it requires us to stop in the middle of what we’re doing or where we’re headed, to explain to those around us that, when we are following Christ, our choices don’t have to look good to everyone and they don’t have to feel good either.  The way is good simply because it leads where God calls us to go.

God’s will, God’s redemptive plan, God’s future of hope – these still unite us.  Our failure to get the details organized to the point of consensus does not diminish any of the above.    

When I first moved to Shelby in my 20's, I had a few brief conversations with one of my neighbors, Mrs. Barnum. (Yes, like the circus, but then again, not, as she explained.) One simple statement she made has stayed with me all these years. How likely is that? I think it made a lasting impression because she said it in passing, not trying to make a big point. It may have stuck because she was mentioning something she did, not something she believed or something she was trying to convince me to believe. Or maybe it's because I thought she had chosen a really improbable challenge and I felt a little sorry for her. Mrs. Barnum said, "Every day I walk to church and pray for an end to the Vietnam War." 

She was elderly. She took care of her elderly husband. My only mental picture is seeing the two of them seated on lawn chairs under a shade tree near their front stoop from which they could see traffic on two intersecting streets. And occasionally chat with passersby. Like me. 

Even now, I have to break up that simple sentence in order to take it in fully. Every day? No breaks for inclement weather? No excused absence for an achey back? I couldn't imagine her walking half a mile to the Catholic church every morning. Perhaps I heard that wrong. Perhaps someone picked her up. But she could have accomplished the same thing while sitting on her sofa with a cup of tea, right? Pray? I understood praying. I prayed, although my prayers were probably accompanied by fewer candles and I'm very sure they encompassed a much smaller radius. Prayers for the end of the Vietnam War? Honestly? That might not seem far fetched today, but it startled me. I'd come from MSU where demonstrators were protesting. I saw pictures of the war zone headlining the TV evening newscasts. And in between those two impressions, in the center, was an elderly woman who straightened herself out to her full height and put considerable effort behind her concern with no guarantees, no end in sight. 

Since then, I've led bible studies on prayer, I've organized prayer chains, I've asked for prayers. I've been to seminary. I've sat in small circles and prayed sincerely and deeply. Yet, my image of faithful prayer is still that soft-spoken, persistent, unassuming, powerless woman with a name like a circus, but then again, not at all like the circus we all live in. 

Prayers for peace this morning.