The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

When President Roosevelt (FDR) spoke these words at his inaugural address, the country was at the bottom of the Great Depression.  He went on to describe fear as the “nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”

We all have fears, some more than others.  Even those who appear to be fearless are, in reality, able to keep their fears in check.  The causes of fear are endless, from ablutophobia (fear of washing or bathing) to zoophobia (fear of animals).  I recently confirmed that I have a touch of claustrophobia when I visited an inmate at the county jail.  Entering into a small, locked room, I spoke with him through a glass and telephone.  Ten minutes into the conversation I got dry mouth and had to pee.  And I still had 50 minutes to go before they would let me out!

The Bible documents a number of instances involving the fear of men, animals and elements.  Jesus said that we should not fear men, but rather “fear him who, after the killing of the body, has power to throw you into hell.”  (Luke 12:5)  My fundamentalist friends assure me that the verse doesn’t mean that we should be afraid of God; we should respect him and recognize his awesome power — a sort of healthy fear of him.

While I recognize God’s omnipotence (the power to do anything he wants), I would rather approach him as my perfect Father, the one whom I can run to, and cling to, the one whom I trust to rout my fears. Oftentimes I get comfort when, faced with a fear, I cry silently to him, “Your will be done.”

I suspect that I will never achieve fearlessness this side of death, but my hope is that I am approaching it, ever so slowly, and will overcome it, even if it be at the other side of death on my continued journey.

Another thing that helps me is the thought that others are facing greater challenges than I, and that when I reach the other side of the fearful event, I wonder why I should have feared it at all.

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Okay, so the Unitarian thing didn’t work out.  It might have been the email I received, inviting me to the Heathen Hoopla, where I was to dress as the god, goddess or demon of my choice and bring something to beat on as I dance around the campfire — in the middle of summer!

When we went the first Sunday, we were asked by the greeters to not judge them too quickly on just one service.  That should have been a clue.  I gave them three services.  So when I suggested to my wife that this may not be right for us, she was greatly relieved because she felt the same.

I was trying to pinpoint what was so uncomfortable about my brief Unitarian Universalist experience. While we were encouraged (in their literature) to share what we believe, we found that no one there was sharing what they believed.  They seemed to almost bend over backward in their political correctness with regard to religious tolerance.

I know what I believe.  God, Jesus, Holy Spirit.  These were being replaced with Mother Earth, heathen hoopla and humanism.  While I applaud their emphasis on human kindness and expressions of love, the concentrated effort to avoid references to God, Jesus and Holy Spirit were uncomfortable.

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My pastor called last night. Funny, I called her my pastor; I never joined her church. My wife and I attended that church off an on for quite a number of months, worship services only. No Sunday school, no church dinners or Bible studies. The timing of her call couldn’t have been better because we had decided almost that very day that we wouldn’t be going back.

That sure made for a somewhat uncomfortable conversation. She was pleasant and gracious; I made small talk. She countered with small talk. Even though I wasn’t prompted, I readily confessed that we had missed last Sunday because of a family reunion, which was true. Then I thought, “What do I say next —

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I don’t mean why are you HERE.  I’m not referring to the 51 unique visitors to this blog who spend an average of 7 seconds each, checking in.  I mean why are YOU here — on this earth?  If you don’t believe in God, then you don’t have a clue; you’re just an accident that has already happened.  A big bang.  A mutation from a single-celled organism.  An apostrophe.

BUT - if you believe in God, then you may have a lot of work to do.  Because he certainly had a reason for causing you to exist, and it would behoove you to determine how you fit in with this amazing creation.

The poet W. H. Auden said,

We are here on earth to do good to others.  What the others are here for, I don’t know.

He’s got a point.  If your focus is on your role in this world, the others will take care of themselves. How many of us are more concerned with what others think of us, what others are enjoying, how others have offended us or what they have that we don’t?

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The heart is an amazing organ.  No bigger than your fist, it beats 100,000 times a day, pumping 2,000 gallons of blood through 60,000 miles of blood vessels — all in one person!  It’s the only muscle in your body that never gets tired.  While your brain tells your heart how much blood to pump in order to cover your activity, the heart supplies the brain with the oxygen-rich blood it needs to make decisions.

As a metaphor heart is used to designate the center of things, the seat of emotions or the measure of integrity.  In ancient times feelings were often assigned to the gut or bowels, perhaps because of the movement we feel going on inside of us.  Combined with the pace or intensity of the heartbeat, the feeling in the “pit of your stomach” was a way in which to describe the emotional state that you were in.

Intellect is the function of the brain that processes facts and sensory messages, weighs opinions and references life experiences (memories) in order to assign emotion or generate apathy.  This is also an amazing process when you consider the fact that images, sounds or stories can trigger tear ducts, cause fists to clench, make chests to feel warm, bring lumps in your throat, turn your legs to rubber or simply urge your mouth to turn up at each end.

What role does the spirit have in all of this?

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I work in an office, and most of my day involves the use of a computer.  So an interesting thing happened to me today.  After an hour or so into my morning, I had just finished a brief meeting with someone and was making some notes after she left.  Suddenly, I couldn’t write.  My right hand became weak, my fingers tingled, and I couldn’t grip my pen.  When I tried to write, I couldn’t write clearly, and my hand would twitch or move in a different direction.

A stroke?  I wasn’t sure.  I had no other one-sided symptoms.  I shook my hand by my side and retried to write.  Still nothing.  I remember being more annoyed than scared, thinking I would have the tedious task of learning to write and type with just my left hand.  All this in a span of five minutes.  I work for a doctor, but I didn’t want to tell him because I figured he would want me to go get a CT scan, and, with no insurance and little money, that was seriously out of the question.

So I toughed it out, and a few minutes later, I attempted to write a receipt for someone, cleverly disguising the fact that I may not be able to complete the task.  But I did, however slowly, carefully guiding my hand through the motions — not some of my best writing, but legilble.  Still a few minutes later, and I seemed to be returning to normal.  My hand was tired, and a little sore, but now I had time to reflect.  Was it a stroke?  Carpal tunnel syndrome?  Then I remembered that I had seriously tried to beat my wife’s score in a Yahoo game the night before, which involved some furious clicking with my index finger.  So then I rationalized that I had just strained a tendon, and some wrist or hand movement this morning set the nerve off and running.

Then I wondered how my grandkids could click on those games for hours with no apparent discomfort — oh right, I’m almost 62 with gradually increasing arthritic hands.  Get a grip, Steve!  I did talk to the doc later about it, though, and he pretty much agreed with my self-diagnosis.

But for a fleeting moment I had experienced something that was out of the norm, accompanied by thoughts of life-changing consequences.  What does it mean to “get a grip?”  Some things won’t return to normal in five or ten minutes, a day, week or year.  What then?  I know that every beat of my heart, every twitch of my finger and every breath I take are under the purview of my loving heavenly Father.  Would I still be able to make this statement if it had been a stroke?

I hope so.  I’ve have three heart attacks, so I know something about life-changing events.  And I believe that everything we go through has a purpose; we just don’t always know what that purpose is, or if what we’re going through is meant to work a desired effect in us — or if someone else is being affected through our experience.

My prayer life is quite simple.  It daily consists of “help me” or “thank you.”  Everything in between can be attributed to meditation, or keeping quiet, in case he has something to tell me.  When the alien hand thing happened this morning, I prayed for wisdom and strength to get through it.  After it was over, I thanked God for giving me my life back.  I know that there are greater tests yet to come.  But each time I trust him to help me get a grip.

Yep. There it was, in the inspirational book rack. No time to thumb through it, but immediately my mind began to wonder. If it was easy, wouldn’t it quickly lose its purpose? Isn’t the reason for fasting that it is a concentrated time period in which we give up food to focus on something, someone — our lives, God? Wouldn’t making it easy diminish its effect, undermine its purpose?

Now, I weigh 300+ pounds, so there are many that would recommend that I begin fasting — and soon! I believe that’s called dieting, and even that makes me shudder, although I realize that addressing eating habits and exercise is in order.

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Love and Death make us all children — Can old age be an evil thing, which does the same?

George MacDonald

Childhood is among the most precious gifts that God has given us. It is a period of trust, a time of experiencing and exploring new things, and a sense of security without even realizing it. In Western society the children grow up too quickly. With constant exposure to television and adult drama played out in the home, children begin to imitate, to mimic adult behavior, whether it be good or bad.

Before long the child begins to desire those privileges and responsibilities that only an adult can “enjoy.” Oh, to remain a child for a bit longer! One of the most amazing abilities of the human mind is to remain young and healthy while abiding in frail or broken bodies. While asleep, the crippled dream of walking, the blind dream of seeing, and the elderly dream of bygone days of youth.

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Anyone reading this blog could probably not help but notice that I reference Scottish author George MacDonald fairly regularly.  In fact, one of my favorite MacDonald quotes appears on my home page.  George MacDonald lived from 1824 to 1905.  He was a pastor, poet and novelist.  I’d never even heard of him until a few years ago, but I am firmly convinced that God sent him my way, because my exposure to his writing has literally changed my life.

I like to read.  I wouldn’t exactly call myself an avid reader, but I have enjoyed reading various books, as well as magazine and newspaper articles over the years.  A large part of my reading of books has been in the area of theology.  But I am naturally drawn to a bookstore and can be found browsing a variety of subject matter.  Oddly enough, I hadn’t utilized the library as much as I should have.

Back to my encounter with George MacDonald.  I went through a reading dry spell a while back (more like several years back), and my wife offered for me to look at one or two of her books, novels by MacDonald.  She thought I might like them because of the frequent religious/Christian dialogue by the characters.

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How did we come to be so bad?  Some folks don’t seem to be so bad, some are more consistently bad, and still others appear to be ”rotten to the core.”  As the saying goes, “Nobody’s perfect.”  Why is that?  Is badness contagious?   Does the Devil always make us do it?  Or do all of us have varying quantities of bad genes?

In the religious circles we’re taught that we can’t help being bad, that we’re born that way.  Ironically, they also teach us that our badness destines us for destruction — even though it wasn’t our fault.  We were born that way, right?

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