The god in my pocket
The god in my pocket
"God accepts you for what you are, not what you should be," read the sign.
I was puzzled. Perhaps it meant: "God accepts you for what you are in Christ." But that's not what it said.
It would be a clear, Christian confession if it read: "Though you are a sinner, God declared you to be holy for Jesus' sake." But if we posted that on a sign, we would break the first commandment of secularized religion: "Thou shalt not harm thy neighbor's self-esteem."
According to the world, religion must be positive, never negative; always affirming, never accusing.
Maybe the sign had words that the world can accept to get people in the door and bring them to repentance gradually, painlessly--a kind of ecclesiastical "bait and switch."
But that sign said what my sinful flesh likes to hear. It avoided all the nasty lectures my conscience gives me. It made no mention of uncomfortable things like sin or guilt or death or hell. If what the sign said is true, I don't have to stand before God, awesome in his holiness and terrible in his justice, and cry out, "Woe to me! I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips and I live among a people of unclean lips!"
Rather, the sign gives me the liberty to fashion a god who comes almost to my shoulder, a god who is flattered that I should find an hour to stop by and chat with him some Sunday morning. He is the god in my pocket.
We have this agreement: I'll pay him an occasional visit, if he doesn't say things that offend me. I'll slip him a buck now and then and he nods politely when I talk. Occasionally, my words make him wince a bit, but he swallows hard. For the sake of my self-esteem, he reaffirms his love. Like a doting grandfather, he comes to my rescue when others suggest that my life is not what it should be. He sets me free to be me. After all, I created him in my own image.
There is a problem with the little god who accepts me the way I am. I don't need him. If I sit in front of a mirror, it would produce the same effect. Besides, if he weren't around, I could have my Sabbaths all to myself and save money too.
In fact, the god in my pocket needs me more than I need him. He's forever making polite overtures for my money and my Sabbaths. We both know that if it weren't for goodfellas like me, his church would have been boarded up years ago.
Keeping my little god in good repair is a lonely, thankless, futile business. For all my work, he gives me no peace. But I humor him anyhow, because charity is a good thing. And it's always safe to have a stockpile of charities--just in case there's a real God out there.
And I know there is a real God.
I was puzzled. Perhaps it meant: "God accepts you for what you are in Christ." But that's not what it said.
It would be a clear, Christian confession if it read: "Though you are a sinner, God declared you to be holy for Jesus' sake." But if we posted that on a sign, we would break the first commandment of secularized religion: "Thou shalt not harm thy neighbor's self-esteem."
According to the world, religion must be positive, never negative; always affirming, never accusing.
Maybe the sign had words that the world can accept to get people in the door and bring them to repentance gradually, painlessly--a kind of ecclesiastical "bait and switch."
But that sign said what my sinful flesh likes to hear. It avoided all the nasty lectures my conscience gives me. It made no mention of uncomfortable things like sin or guilt or death or hell. If what the sign said is true, I don't have to stand before God, awesome in his holiness and terrible in his justice, and cry out, "Woe to me! I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips and I live among a people of unclean lips!"
A pocket-sized god
Rather, the sign gives me the liberty to fashion a god who comes almost to my shoulder, a god who is flattered that I should find an hour to stop by and chat with him some Sunday morning. He is the god in my pocket.
We have this agreement: I'll pay him an occasional visit, if he doesn't say things that offend me. I'll slip him a buck now and then and he nods politely when I talk. Occasionally, my words make him wince a bit, but he swallows hard. For the sake of my self-esteem, he reaffirms his love. Like a doting grandfather, he comes to my rescue when others suggest that my life is not what it should be. He sets me free to be me. After all, I created him in my own image.
A god I don't need
There is a problem with the little god who accepts me the way I am. I don't need him. If I sit in front of a mirror, it would produce the same effect. Besides, if he weren't around, I could have my Sabbaths all to myself and save money too.
In fact, the god in my pocket needs me more than I need him. He's forever making polite overtures for my money and my Sabbaths. We both know that if it weren't for goodfellas like me, his church would have been boarded up years ago.
Keeping my little god in good repair is a lonely, thankless, futile business. For all my work, he gives me no peace. But I humor him anyhow, because charity is a good thing. And it's always safe to have a stockpile of charities--just in case there's a real God out there.
A God who doesn't need me
And I know there is a real God.
Tags:
