100 or more

I saw this video when I was on a college retreat with InterVarsity. On the first night of our retreat we watched the 86 minute version of this video. I’m not sure I remember much else from that weekend together.

I used this youtube clip during this past weekend’s message and plan on showing the whole DVD during our “Do Something” weekend for our students to discuss. It’ll mess with you. Shane Claiborne’s notion of “finding your Calcutta” (vis-a-vis Mother Teresa) is at the end of the video.

This weekend, like most, I felt unprepared, rushed, and silently wondering if I was going to be abandoned by God as I started teaching. I taught on the familiar words of Jesus about being “the salt of the earth”. I’ve taught it before. I feel like I know it. I did some additional research on the significance of salt in the ancient world.

I uncovered a lot. The bottom line: salt was essential. Some research showed that rabbis compared the Torah to salt– that in the same way the world needed salt for everyday living, so it needed the Torah.
…The use of salt in the koshering of meat.
…The use of salt in chemically altering the heat output of burning animal dung in ancient homes. (Ray Vanderlaan)

So, I said, “Salt was abundant. It was a part of the everyday life of the people to whom Jesus was speaking [on the sermon on the mount]. The point Jesus was making was that his followers were to be “essential” in the world — like salt.”  I thought that this was a fresh insight on the familiar passage. It framed the church in a unique light — be essential for the everyday functioning of the world. I taught our students that the people listening to Jesus (mostly peasant farmers) would be unlikely candidates to see themselves as essential in the shaping of the world. I was on a roll… This was a great message for students (except for the heckler we had during the 11am service — another story perhaps). We prayed. We reflected. God didn’t abandon me.

Then…
     Someone after the service came up and said, “I just learned that salt was incredibly rare at that time. So, to compare someone to salt meant that they were rare and precious”. 
     “Mmm. That…also…sounds… compelling”. The words were slow and encumbered by a newfound fear.

I don’t know if he was right. But, I panicked. I vaguely recall hearing that same statement and the etymology of that familiar idiom about someone being worth his/her salt. But, I didn’t see it in my research. I drove home that day thinking I might have based my message on something  in a misrepresented historical context.

I’m already so insecure about teaching every weekend… And now, I get to wonder if I created a false historical reality by some kind of negligence.

Joy.

At least there’s always another weekend.
Here’s the message on SALT, called NOTHING ARTIFICIAL.

For those of us who teach, we all seem to suffer that familiar experience of immediately finishing a message and asking with the question: “How did I do?”. If you’re like me, you’re attempting to pull together all of the verbal and nonverbal cues from the audience during the course of the last 20-35 minutes you’ve just spent teaching. Usually, I’ll give myself a passing grade if I feel like less than 25% of the room was  text-messaging their friends during that time.

Of course, the super-spiritual among us are quick to self-correct: “It is not me who gives the message, but God’s Spirit through me”. Sure. I’m sure we all can connect with that idea. It’s just a bit problematic when I start grading His effectiveness. Certainly, the Holy Spirit moving in and throughout the lives of the students can’t be boring. But, then, if it’s Him giving the message why are the students playing paper football with the bulletin? Does he get a failing grade?

Then I start to wonder… Usually, I’m crippled with a bit of guilt about the whole thing. I’m not spiritual enough to do what I ought (not care about how people respond to me) and I feel like I’m holding on way tightly to the emotionally charged feedback from the students in the room. In many cases, I think to myself, “Either I’m not good enough as a teacher or I’m not spiritual enough to be one.”

Then, after receiving a self-assessed failing grade only 3 seconds after leaving the stage, a student approaches.

Crap.

I know what’s coming. Something like: “I didn’t really get what you were saying” or “I’m one of the elders’ kids, I have some issues with your position on supralapsarianism” or “This was much better than usual — once you got over that stuttering problem” (I’ve gotten this one before. I didn’t know I had much of a stuttering problem. Now, I’m self-c-c-c-conscious about it).

She says, “Thank you so much. I needed to hear that. You always do a great job.”
Always? That’s a lie. I think she was “up” 10 to 6 in paper football at about 5 minutes in.

Somehow, however,  I get that ultra-frustrating reality that God may not actually be speaking per se, but using the message to accomplish His stuff. For that, I cannot take the blame for a weak message (fortunately) nor can I take the credit for one that “does something” (unfortunately for me).

Everyone breathing easier. Apple juice in mom’s lap… Golden.

Like most all things, it’s a completely different story when it’s your kid.

In all the packing and preparing, finding the “froggie socks”, the right book (”The Very Hungry Caterpillar”), the pink pajamas, and the correct “soffy” (read it exactly as it’s written) blankets, I don’t think I had thought too much about THAT certain inevitability — the actual surgery.

As soon as they wheeled my almost 3 year old out of the pre-op room and into surgery, it felt like I stopped being her father. They smiled and told us everything was going to be “great” and that it’d be “no problem”. Only, I don’t feel quite like that. And while any attempt to placate myself by thinking about how much more serious other kids’ conditions are might have been helpful up to this point, it doesn’t appear to speed up the surgery or put me any closer to her side.

Now, waiting.