A(nother) Book Review

Present Perfect: Finding God in the Now

Gregory A. Boyd

Zondervan

$14.99

In Present Perfect: Finding God in the Now, former atheist Gregory Boyd weaves together the meditations of Brother Lawrence, Jean Paul de Caussade, and Frank Laubach to encourage readers to wake up to the present reality of God. Boyd, a scholar with credentials from Yale and Princeton, studied three theologians from three different periods and transposed their practices for application in our lives. The result seems radical to our contemporary, compartmentalized lives.

In this series of essays, Boyd challenges readers to be aware of God’s presence in each moment of our lives, posting reminders throughout the text. He effectively holds together abstract, counter-cultural, sometimes mind-blowing concepts with a concrete structure, and reminds readers to read slowly and prayerfully (25). Each chapter begins with an opening quote from Brother Lawrence, J.-P. de Caussade, or Laubach, followed by a poetic prayer by Boyd. He concludes each chapter with practical application exercise derived from his study. This structure helps to counter an obstacle Boyd foresees in practicing the presence of God in each moment. “Gathering new information is easy: translating it into transformation is the challenge” (25). Just as a weekly trip to church isn’t what makes us followers of Christ, the truth of the Bible remains mere information until the presence of the Holy Spirit convicts us and reshapes our hearts and our subsequent actions.

Until that transformation occurs, we compartmentalize God and persist as “functional atheists”. Boyd asserts, “We may still believe in God, of course, but he’s not real to us most of the time” (29). The only way for God to be real to us is to seek him in each moment. Because we can’t change the past and can only speculate about the future, all we have to offer God is the present moment. “The only thing that matters is that we—right now—cease our striving after false gods and become aware of God’s ever-present, perfect love” (54).

All Christians intellectually agree that Christ died for our sins, but only those seeking “Life” from God on a moment-by-moment basis can effectively fill themselves with his love and pass it on to others as we are commanded. To be awake to God in each moment is to die to ourselves continually. “Only now are we free to agree with God that every person we encounter, including our own worst enemies, was worth Christ dying for” (107). What an effective reminder of how radical authentic Christianity is!

Boyd closes Present Perfect with a reminder of the big picture. “As much as possible, we are to manifest now what will be true for the whole creation in the future” (150). Our full, authentic belief in God can be displayed in our actions, in each moment.

Present Perfect is inspiring, freeing and deeply convicting at the same time. Boyd effectively grounds his work in classic contemplative authors and scripture, while keeping his finger on the pulse of our modern culture. He employs challenging exercises to tie down abstract notions of a living, loving, ever-present God.

Reviewer’s notes: I highly recommend this book! My delay in writing this review is a testimony to how challenging and convicting it is. Against the author’s advice, I read hurriedly and hungrily, leaving my review copy cluttered with notes. I’m sure I will use this book as a resource in the future.

Treasures on Earth

A year ago I was an unmarried twenty-something living in Chicago and working at a major university. I took hour-long lunches on the shore of Lake Michigan every day, made a decent salary, and worked with lovely people. Although that sounds like the finish line of a goal for most modern women my age, every calculated move I made was part of a strategic escape plan.

I was engaged, planning a wedding, then moving to Ohio to be closer to family and to pump the brake on my frenetic pace. My then fiancé Joe and I were saving every penny for the wedding, the state-to-state move, and to buy our first home. We spent months praying and waiting to hear God’s will for our lives. I went without cable or internet in my apartment, traded my gym membership for pilates dvd’s, and fasted from restaurant dining. Somehow none of this was that much of a struggle since I was so excited about reaching our goals, and because I had so much more quiet time with God. This sort of simplicity in the sprawling, materialistic city felt nothing short of triumphant, as if I had conquered a beast.

No designer label could elevate me to this position. No fancy phone or gadget could make me feel like a part of this club. Material comfort items could never compare to a relationship with our God who comforts.

I thought my feeling of stability in this position of fulfillment would last. Joe and I thought that a move to Ohio would mean a simpler life, respite from the hyper consumerism of Chicago. How wrong we were! Perhaps we let our guard down, but how could we be prepared for this? After all, we moved to the suburbs, not an idyllic Amish community.

Now our nearest grocery store is one of those mega-supermarkets—on my way in to pick up bread and milk, I pass armchairs, craft supplies, and everything in between. Convenience and mass production abound, and credit card offers are all too common. It seems like everyone around me has an expensive hair style, trendy clothes, and a Vera Bradley bag.

When I feel my resolve wavering I look to scripture like this passage from Matthew 6:

¹⁹Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. ²⁰But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. ²¹For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

I recognize my tendency to seek comfort from small purchases like magazines, beauty products, and decorations for our house. Then I pour more of my heart into my relationship with God and remind myself that impulse items provide only fleeting satisfaction. Yet, the lure of “stuff” persists.

When I fail to draw the application from scripture to practice, I look to my grandmother. She’s lived a life of simplicity, stewardship and patience. Have you ever heard of testing your attitude by slipping your name in place of the word “love” in 1 Corinthians 13:4-7? My grandmother is the only person I know who passes.

Grandma is patient, Grandma is kind. She does not envy, she does not boast, she is not proud. She is not rude, she is not self-seeking, she is not easily angered, she keeps no record of wrongs. She does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. She always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

I’m so lucky to know someone like her who has lived simply, partly out of necessity, but always gracefully. You can imagine my surprise last weekend when my sweet, eighty-four-year-old grandma looked at my sister’s designer bag, pointed and said excitedly, “Is that a Vera?”

Et tu, Grandma? Not only had she correctly identified the designer, but she also referred to her on a first-name basis as if they were old gal pals. Apparently Grandma’s appreciation for designer quilted bags developed earlier that week when she received a catalog in the mail. My uncle offered to buy one for her, but she insisted that they were too expensive.

It’s funny to lump my precious grandma in with the masses of culture that rely on “stuff” to elevate status. It makes me check my attitude on this issue: am I a little too gratified in my abstinence? Maybe people just like certain things because they are handy products, or useful, or pretty. In my grandma’s case, I think she probably just appreciates the look and function of the quilted bags.

I am learning that simplicity is a delicate balancing act—like most aspects of Christian life. A holier-than-thou attitude about simplicity is just as sinful as a life consumed by consuming. My revised resolve looks more like this: I will continue to resist clever advertising while I pray for sincerity in my endeavors. I will seek comfort and fullness only from my Creator, and be a wise steward of the resources He provides. And I’ll probably buy a lovely quilted bag for my grandma this Mother’s Day.

"Good news, Pepper died!"

"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: rejoice. Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Jesus Christ." Philippians 4:4-7 (NIV)

Lisa, my husband’s younger sister, has Autism. Experts say if you have known one person with Autism, you’ve known one person with Autism. Classified as a “spectrum disorder”, the symptoms vary widely, and each individual case comes with a multitude of obstacles to overcome. Put very simply, my sister-in-law’s brain is wired differently than most other’s when it comes to verbal communication.

Doctors told her parents when she was very young that she would never speak, but they were wrong. She loves to talk, but long sentences are a chore and sometimes she doesn’t find the right word for the right emotion. So when we went to visit my in-laws one weekend shortly after the death of a family friend’s dog, Lisa blurted out to us, “Good news: Pepper died!”

My mother-in-law gently corrected her, “No sweetie, that’s not good news”. It seemed to us that Lisa was confusing her excited emotion for seeing us with the thing that had been weighing on her heart. She loved Pepper, loves all dogs for that matter, and was consumed by the loss.

Months afterward, I kept thinking about that phrase for some reason. During a bit of a dry spell after moving from Chicago to Columbus, filled with employment rejection for me, homesickness for my husband, and a less than abundant bank account for both of us, we decided that we just needed something to pick us up. We joked that “most of our good news has been more like, ‘Good news: Pepper died!’”. On our way to church one Sunday I used the tired, sarcastic joke one last time.

God must have anticipated my unflattering show of self-pity as He worked with our pastor on that Sunday’s message where he referred to the Gospel repeatedly as—you guessed it—“The Good News”. The best news there could be, really!

How foolish the Gospel makes my ego look. Decorating a home is inconsequential. My career goals are unimportant when I’m truly living to serve God. How easily I lose sight of what this life is really about.

At the moment of the ego-check I recalled hearing the story of Horatio Spafford’s hymn “It is Well” too many times to count during the past few months. For those of you who don’t know the story, here is a video:

Did I mention that one of my goals has been to become a better listener to God? Sometimes He speaks, and speaks, and speaks before I understand how His word applies to my life—and my bad attitude. Oh, thank you, God for your patience.

It is so easy to allow ourselves to be swept into the current of cultural expectations and the subsequent feelings of failure when we don’t measure up. (Hint: in a consumerist culture, we will never measure up. We will never be fulfilled.) The more I think of the world as a spiritual place, the easier it becomes to measure success.

When we get to heaven and all of our ailments fall away I wonder if Lisa will explain that she meant to say, “Pepper died, but it is well with my soul.”

A Book Review

Thin Places
Mary DeMuth
Zondervan $14.99


Mary DeMuth’s memoir Thin Places, released February 1, will break your heart then mend it better than it was before. As gritty and painful as it is inspiring, Thin Places is the story of DeMuth’s traumatic childhood and rich spiritual journey into adulthood. The details of her abuse, neglect and eventual redemption seem to unravel naturally, yet this is the work of a truly gifted storyteller.

DeMuth gives order to her helter-skelter upbringing by anchoring scenes in the moments when she came closest to God: thin places. According to the author, thin places are “snatches of time, moments really, when we sense God intersecting our world in tangible, unmistakable ways.” A little girl alone in a world of divorced and drug-addicted parents, a careless babysitter, and sexually abusive neighborhood boys, Mary DeMuth triumphs because of the still small voice she encountered in even the darkest moments.

True to her storytelling nature, DeMuth builds an artful and detailed narrative, and delivers the kind of startling honesty many of us aren’t brave enough to offer ourselves. The Christian answer to essayist Annie Dillard, DeMuth’s recollection of her past is grounded yet ethereal, orderly yet poetic.

Unlike most essayists, DeMuth’s memoir is absent of self-pity or narcissism. In a self-indicting tone, the author continually asks, “Does the world revolve around me, or do I think it should? Am I a person of sacrifice or selfishness?” (104). This practice serves her writing well by creating a humble voice and welcome space for her reader.

Contrary to self-indulgence, the author labors through her own pain with the aim of encouraging others who feel alone. In the press leading to the release of Thin Places, DeMuth made her intentions for this cathartic work clear. “It’s my sincere hope that my story will stay with readers, not because of its sordidness, but because the Light of Jesus has shined so brightly upon it.”

About her memoir, DeMuth said, “I’ve sensed God’s hands on this book from the moment I started writing it.” Clearly He carried her to this place of understanding. Thin Places is a shining example of God’s unfathomable, illogical, and unfailing love, and how He communicates to the least of these through the most unlikely circumstances.

Inaugural Blogural: Defining Ragamuffin Scrap Craft

Ragamuffin

Once when I was four my mother called me a ragamuffin. Using my limited context, I tried to make sense of the word.

Grover on Sesame Street taught me to take words apart when I didn’t know what they meant. The “rag” part of the new title conjured images of the shirt scraps my mother squirted with lemon Pledge to dust the furniture. The “muffin” part made me think of Strawberry Shortcake’s muffin-shaped hat. A ragamuffin then must smell delicious—like lemons and strawberries. What an honor!

Now I realize she was lovingly teasing my unkempt appearance. Hand-me-down play clothes and a terrible haircut were of no consequence to this contented child. My mother gave me the choice for my thick, coarse hair: engage in battle each day with my mangled mane—combs with bent teeth and bottles of ‘No More Tangles’ as our weapons. Or, simply cut it off. Preferring playtime to torture, I chose the latter. Between the ages of four and seven, I sported several terrible short hair styles, quite contentedly at that.

In college I encountered the word ragamuffin again, this time in my Medieval English Literature class. Rather than relying on my Sesame Street etymology practices, I employed foot notes and the Oxford English Dictionary Online to understand words not already part of my vocabulary. (Medieval English required more looking up than actual reading.) In Piers Plowman, the ragamuffin was the demon character. Oh, crushing blow! Surely, my mother meant the less severe definition for me.

I’m somewhere on the spectrum of ragamuffinness, with God’s help, constantly striving for the charming, child-like end.

Scrap Craft

This definition comes more easily—I will lift it from one of my favorite new books. In Garden Anywhere, Alys Fowler calls scrap craft “when you reuse or recycle unwanted items into something useful” (9). Fowler, a gardener and writer, adopted the practice of scrap craft as a means of protest against mass manufacturing, and a way to save money. It didn’t take long for her to feel the intrinsic reward of making something lovely and useful from trash.

In my upbringing Scrap Craft was called resourcefulness. The Green movement and the current state of the economy could be catalysts for a Scrap Craft movement, but my grandparents have always lived this way: the vegetable peels are saved for garden compost, the Ziploc bags are rinsed and hung on the clothesline to be reused, junk lumber is made into an end table.

The Bible would call this “Stewardship”, a wise use of resources. After all, none of this—not even a Ziploc bag—is ours. We should make good use of what God gives us. Our Creator Himself is the Master Scrap Crafter, taking the brokenness that we are, and making something lovely of it when we allow ourselves to be scooped from the dumpster that is this fallen world.

Ragamuffin Scrap Craft

One of the most difficult aspects of authentic Christianity is admitting our brokenness, recognizing the fact that without a loving Creator to change us, we are worthless. Without that admission, there is no need for God, no need for the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ.

Wherever you find yourself on the spectrum of ragamuffinness—more like a playful urchin or an utter demon—I hope my writing draws you nearer to the authentic love of God and his never-ceasing desire to use us in His beauty. Even broken, even used, even with bad haircuts.

Heavenly Father,

Bless my writing so that it may draw others to your freeing Truth and renewing love. Give me understanding of Your works that I may share with others. Help me to be courageous in writing what are normally only my inner thoughts or conversations I have with my husband.

In my vanity make me like my four-year-old self.
In my dealings with others, make me like your Son.

Amen.