Currents of Faith: Open and Unfolding Reflections

I have always had trouble with the word salvation and an even greater problem with the question: “Are you saved?” I was repulsed by them, feeling that they just did not fit in my vocabulary. My entry into the church at age sixteen marked the beginning of my struggle with salvation. I loved the church and eagerly participated. I did not like salvation.

During the Lenten season I decided to offer an evening class on the topic, “A Deeper Exploration of God.” I announced that the content of the class would come from the questions which people brought. Following are several of those questions:

“Why do so many bad things keep happening on earth under God’s watch?

My theology guides me to seek experience to understand events. I began with searching the books between the bookends of Jesus’ life, the actual history of what Jesus said and did. I now turn to my search for the experiences of the church expressed in the bookends of Christmas and Easter. I move from what Jesus said to what was said about Jesus, from proclaimer to proclaimed.

Let Jesus speak. Alas, the words of Jesus have waxed and waned in the 2000 years since he uttered them. Dr. Alfred North Whitehead spoke of Jesus as the “brief Galilean flicker.” In the church today we celebrate the bookends of Jesus’ life, his birth and death. Few pay much attention in that period of the church year called Kingdomtide, yet we all anticipate and lavishly celebrate Christmas and Easter. For me, however, the Kingdom is central, for there I find the voice of Jesus. In the bookends I hear the voice of his followers, the church. I value what Jesus said more than what the church said about Jesus.

I now move to how theology has informed my faith, focusing specifically upon areas which have been central to the Christian faith: Scripture, Jesus, Christ, Evil, Salvation, Forgiveness, Prayer, Death and Judgment. I begin with the Bible.

Adrienne and I were driving home from an early September visit with our daughter in Seattle. Two mountain passes separate Seattle and Wenatchee and we had crossed Snoqualmie Pass and were approaching the ascent to Blewett Pass. It was early evening and darkness was setting in. The brightness of the headlights of several cars coming  toward us limited my vision. As the last car went by I noticed movement ahead, some vague figures on the highway. I quickly pumped the brakes, slowing from the speed limit I had been traveling. There loomed in front of us a herd of elk crossing the road. I cried out, “Oh, God,” clenched the steering wheel and jammed the brakes even more forcefully. The tires squealed as we were thrust forward in our seat belts. I could not stop in time. The huge animals were as shocked as we, suddenly startled and blinded by our oncoming headlights.

I learned about a significant part of my past in a counseling office. Dr. Paul King was my first psychotherapist at the Michigan State University Student Counseling Center. I was learning to counsel by experiencing counseling from the other side of the desk. During this time period we were talking about my fears and my guilt. Frequently as I spoke I would feel a strong tightening feeling surging upward into my neck then my head would shake rapidly back and forth uncontrollably. This was truly puzzling and disturbing. On one such occasion a flood of memories rushed into my awareness. I re-lived myself as an eight year old boy sitting on the basement steps, horrified, and clinging to my mother. I experienced moments of my past which had been repressed for years, too overwhelming and intense for me to bear.

We drove through the gate into the school yard on that cold New Year’s Day of 1944. All our possessions were loaded into a pickup truck and our 1934 Chevrolet sedan. On our left was a small white building with windows across the side and wooden steps leading to a doorway. On the right was a tiny white frame house with a pile of coal near the door. Farther ahead were two out houses and a fenced corral. Two small trees graced the property. The school yard was surrounded by open fields, this time of year brown with skiffs of white from the most recent snow. Open space greeted our eyes in all directions leading to the majestic Sawtooth mountains in the distance. Our forty mile trip had brought us to Roseworth.

It was a day in May, 1960 and we were now living in Pullman, Washington. I was in my first year as a faculty member of WSU and approaching my twenty-seventh birthday. As a staff counselor my office was in a remodeled barn, which explains why the offices were on the third floor and the restrooms inconveniently located on the second floor. It was a normal morning of counseling and I had quickly walked downstairs to “prepare for my next appointment,” our euphemism for saying, “I am going to the restroom.”

God is an integral part of the center of creativity and it is here that I wish to focus. I wrote the story of God’s role in the motorcycle accident twenty years ago to illustrate God’s intimate and persuasive presence. I have deepened and enlarged my vision of God since then, first in a book, Eight Paths to Forgiveness, and more recently in a sermon I offered at Trinity United Methodist Church in East Wenatchee. This enriched vision follows.

I will now relate what I learned as I read that book years ago in preaching class, a book which still resides on my bookshelf bearing within it all the underlining in red ink. I cherish it because it was my source of hope which kept the original light bulb burning. There would be many more books read and presentations heard to bring me to the present.

I did find a job in southern California. I was to be an assistant minister at the West Covina Methodist Church, located some twenty miles from the school of theology. I would devote thirty hours a week calling on families and cultivating new members. I would join an impressive staff: senior minister, Rev. Miles Acker, minister of Christian education, Rev. Max Graham and Paul Biering, another beginning seminarian from the Northwest. The salary was slightly over half of what I was earning as a faculty member, but it included a pleasant parsonage several blocks from the church on Cherrywood Street. I was content. I was where I wanted to be.