Genesis 1:1

I registered for a class on the Old Testament, and didn’t know when class started, so I missed the first couple weeks. I’ve been trying desperately to catch up with my reading and weekly assignments, hence my absence here (and neglect of all my other books). But even though I’ve read the Old Testament before, I’ve learned a lot more this time around. God doesn’t just establish a Law and a covenant, He lives by it. It’s constantly taken away (through man’s wickedness) and rebuilt (though His mercy). So here’s a summary of my first assignment, cut down to suitable blog length, on the first two books of the Bible.

The overarching theme of Genesis is creation. Most obviously of the world and humanity itself, but also in God’s covenants with His people: Noah; Abraham; Jacob, who becomes Israel. God continues to break down and recreate after the initial seven days of the first chapters, creating these covenants with His people. Even more than creation, though, it’s a record of God’s love for those made “in His image.”

That love can only be of God, because throughout Genesis we see continued evidence of humanity’s flaws. It begins with Adam and Eve eating of the forbidden fruit, and these flaws are most obvious in the great Flood. But through Noah, God’s great love is seen even in this mass destruction. Noah and his family are saved from the waters, and once they recede receives the same commandment as Adam: “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth.” (Genesis 9:1)

If God’s promises are slowed down or halted, it is humanity’s own fault. God desires to be in union with mankind, despite its continued tendency to betray Him. Even the flood failed to erase these faults, for Noah himself is shown succumbing to drunkenness. But this doesn’t stop God from creating a great nation. Abram is promised this “great nation” (12:2), blessed with a child at an advanced age. And later, Jacob’s descendants become the twelve tribes of this very nation—despite his sons selling the youngest, Joseph, into slavery. The God of the Old Testament is often viewed as one of wrath and punishment, but Genesis shows otherwise: The patriarchs fall again and again, but God continually renews His covenants with them. It’s not a story of wrath, but of love.

In Exodus, God—and His divine love—seem absent at first glance. The Hebrews now live in slavery and oppression in Egypt. But despite this initial perspective, Exodus’s main theme is still a covenant, and one greater than before. This is shown not only in the Israelite’s eventual freedom, but how they are established as the chosen people with great responsibility.

Moses bears the weight of this responsibility at first, being a prime example of both man’s faults and his loyalty to God. Though Moses accepted his divine calling, he never ceased complaining: of a speech impediment, his inability to lead, and of Pharaoh’s stubbornness, to name a few. But God continues to guide him (sometimes sternly) and is unchanging in His promises.
But God also provides more than the Hebrews think they need—a moral code to live by, beginning with the Ten Commandments. Here, God’s promises are accelerated in this culmination of a covenant that builds the foundation of modern society. Now, the people are expected to live by God’s expectations in this new Law.

But with great responsibility comes greater judgement for disobeying. Though God is patient, He remains a God of justice. While Moses receives the divine Law, the people grow impatient and create their own god in the golden calf. God’s answer to this is similar to that of a wicked earth prior to the Flood—the calf (the people’s sin) is destroyed, and those that worshipped it (the wicked) are put to death. His promises continue to be put “on hold” as He cleans up mankind’s mess.

But the remaining loyal are blessed. They have a greater responsibility in building the tabernacle and the establishment of the priesthood. Here, their journey toward a settled land can begin with God as their guide.

Spiritual Virginity, part I

I’d spent most of my adult life single, an anomaly to my semi-rural Baptist church. As I got older, the offers to set me up grew more frequent and I was more stubborn in my refusals. Maybe I just won’t get married, I thought. I’d gotten used to the single life, which was fine, even if it felt empty sometimes. But, I’d garnered a fairly one-dimensional view of marriage from my Evangelical perspective, which definitely wasn’t for me—a stay-at-home wife, a quaint life of child-rearing and quilting parties. A life where, when I once expressed an uncertainty at bearing children, the response was simply, “God says ‘be fruitful and multiply.’” Over time, I believed my differing opinion didn’t matter. My fate as a woman was already sealed.

This is unsurprising, given St. Paul’s words of wisdom to the Ephesians (5:22): “Wives, be subject to your husbands, as to the Lord,” and (v. 27) “present [her] without spot or wrinkle or any such thing, that she might be holy and without blemish.” Why would I depend on a man for my spiritual purity? I can do that myself.

When I was discerning Catholicism, I vividly remember the moment I learned I didn’t have to be submissive to mere mortals. I was sitting in a pub, listening to a loud, overweight woman talk about her love for Jesus. She was a normal person, living a non-cloistered life, and was a consecrated single. What is that? I marveled. I researched as soon as I got home.

I’d started to understand more about Jesus’s love in those few months of discernment than I had in the decades prior, so consecration seemed a pretty nice gig—dedication not to a human being, but to the ever-present, unchanging Creator of everything. I was proud of the silently-observant consecrated, making a bold decision to love Christ as other women loved husbands. This seemed the better (and more productive) option than quilting parties, but somethig felt off for me. It was ideal in that moment at the pub, but the more I thought about it, the more it felt like taking the easy way out. What if this wasn’t God’s plan for me? There isn’t exactly a large pool of eligible bachelors in their mid-thirties, but what if I did meet an actual nice guy one day?

That nagging “be subject to your husbands” mindset was still lingering. But if the consecrated life is a marriage to the Spirit, shouldn’t human marriage be equally holy? Over time, I learned there are a lot of literal interpretations of these verses without the spiritual back-up. Ladies are taught to remain obedient and silent, and us independent women reject St. Paul’s seemingly archaic rules. Like, he was a single guy, so what does he know about marriage? Or, it was just the culture at the time. Or, he’s a misogynist so nothing he says can be true, anyway.

But I went back to read the rest of Ephesians 5, which isn’t exactly secretive about the rest of St. Paul’s advice (v. 25): “Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” (Emphasis mine.) To understand human relationships, we have to understand… Jesus Christ. If I were to proofread St. Paul’s letters, I would’ve put this part first. Because without this spiritual context—Jesus—the rest doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

So I began to dig into that, too. And what I learned about Jesus’s love for the the Church, and His people, will take up an entire blog post of its own.

Story of a Soul

When we read of the saints, it’s easy to forget they were real people. They seem to have it all together and always in-tune to God’s voice and desires. Logically I know that’s not true, but they sound really good on paper. At first, St. Thérèse is no exception. She speaks of her strong connection to God from the age of three, even knowing for sure as a child that she would be a Carmelite. But underneath that devotion, there are hints of her humanity. She wasn’t perfect, and in her autobiography we witness her gradual spiritual growth. It shows that St. Thérèse was, in fact, real.

This is part autobiography, part spiritual guide. A common theme is her great suffering, from the innocent trials of childhood to her later illness leading to an early death. She loved deeply, both Jesus and humanity. She often prayed for the souls of the unsaved, and cared greatly for the clergy. She desired to take on the suffering of others so that they may be saved. In that, she lived as Jesus himself did. She became a guide to her fellow Sisters, and always had a word of spiritual wisdom for the novices (sometimes harsh, but always truthful).

My vocation is love!… I am but a weak and helpless child, yet it is my very weakness that makes me dare to offer myself, O Jesus, as victim to Thy Love.

She speaks often of her littleness and weakness, but there is another depth to that—of being unworthy, of feeling separated from God though she writes these lofty words. “I sing only of what I wish to believe,” she says. Though she frequently offers herself to Jesus there are times that she doesn’t feel that way. She writes the words so that she may feel it. That’s a sentiment all too familiar. St. Thérèse was young and often naive, but she didn’t need worldly wisdom and praise. She understood her vocation to be wholehearted love for Jesus—a simple devotion, but with great responsibility.

This edition includes an epilogue by the Prioress after St. Thérèse’s death, which sheds more light on the end of her earthly life. Maybe that’s what makes this all real to me—it includes a timeline of her life, and many details about her last weeks. There are excerpts from her letters to novices, and a section of written prayers later found tucked in her Bible. Against my self-imposed rules, I’ve dog-eared several pages of this book for later reference: I’ll need her guidance on charity, love, and prayer again.

Scripture teaches us to approach God as a child, not in a childish way but in wonder and admiration. We’re to love with that simple innocence. This is the way of the “Little Flower.” We often complicate things, especially as we get older. We become bitter by what we’ve learned of a hardened world. But Jesus isn’t bitter. Jesus is that pure and simple Love, and that’s how we’re to live, too. That’s how St. Thérèse lived.

Without love, even the most brilliant deeds count for nothing. These gifts, which Our Lord lavished upon me, far from doing me any harm, drew me toward him.