Crickets, Christmas, Etc.
For the past few days, there’s been a one-legged cricket hopping around the basement. Since that basement also serves as my computer, music, and reading station when I’m home, I’ve been keeping an eye on the half-cocked little bug. I’m far from being an entomologist, but watching him (no, I’m not sure about the gender, but neutral pronouns sound so clinical) has been fascinating. When I first noticed him, I considered squashing him. This wasn’t out of hatred, but I reasoned that for a creature whose existence centered around jumping, life with one leg wasn’t a very promising prospect. I also thought about taking him outside so he’d at least pass on in his natural surroundings. Then I remembered that it’s winter, and were I to be so disabled, I’d probably rather get by in warm strangeness than die in freezing familiarity. So in the end, I didn’t follow through with either, presuming that he’d either figure out some means of surviving or that the cat would find him and finish things quickly.
Today he was dead. He was sitting between the treadmill and my guitar case most of the day. I kept glancing over, thinking he might simply be resting. After all, getting around this basement is quite a job for a hopless cricket. After a few gentle prods from my foot prompted no reaction, however, I faced facts, grabbed a tissue, and chucked him in the trash can.
Is this the way I deal with non-Christians too? Instead of doing anything, I simply watch in amazement as they get by in whatever way they can, warmed by artificial lights and staggering toward death? I don’t say this to be patronizing, I say it out of the realization that I’d be miserable without the reality of God. My spiritual life lacks far more than the metaphysical equivalent of a cricket leg, but I am fortunate enough to have Someone willing to carry me across the fluorescent wastelands of this world. Meanwhile, I hope and pray that those without will find such providence. I certainly try not to ignore the world, but how loudly can kindness and patience speak independently? The moments that even these disappear from my life are far too frequent anyway, and how obvious is the Source of virtue in me when it does occur? I shudder to think how the songs of Christmas sound in the ears of someone who is facing December’s cold truly alone. And I wonder how much help I could and should be. There is a so much going on beyond this physical realm and its appearances. How much of the vitriol cast at Christians and Christian culture springs from me, from us, making misguided attempts at spreading God’s name in a fallen world, and how much of it is silently wishing that God would reveal Himself through us? These are not the days of Peter and Paul, when the name of Jesus was blissfully new to the ears it fell upon. This is contemporary America, where many people have put years of cynicism, research, and science into the formulation of their atheism. I try to drop signs of my faith whenever possible, to make it so my Christianity is not easily missed, but when does that lead to more? How much do indirect reflections of God's love affect those unfamiliar with its Supplier? I don’t find those who say they don’t believe in God confessing their desperation at my doorstep. So when does the time come to speak out without just providing another opportunity for a snide, disillusioned rebuttal?
I am overjoyed at the prospect of Christmas, a day when I am surrounded by family and our mutual faith is acknowledged through the very act of living. And I wish a tree in the window was enough to make a statement of that faith to those outside it, not just a cultural nicety. When I do face death, I would rather do it freezing, clinging whole-heartedly to the promise of God with no other man in sight, than in the tepid arms of feigned satisfaction.
Today he was dead. He was sitting between the treadmill and my guitar case most of the day. I kept glancing over, thinking he might simply be resting. After all, getting around this basement is quite a job for a hopless cricket. After a few gentle prods from my foot prompted no reaction, however, I faced facts, grabbed a tissue, and chucked him in the trash can.
Is this the way I deal with non-Christians too? Instead of doing anything, I simply watch in amazement as they get by in whatever way they can, warmed by artificial lights and staggering toward death? I don’t say this to be patronizing, I say it out of the realization that I’d be miserable without the reality of God. My spiritual life lacks far more than the metaphysical equivalent of a cricket leg, but I am fortunate enough to have Someone willing to carry me across the fluorescent wastelands of this world. Meanwhile, I hope and pray that those without will find such providence. I certainly try not to ignore the world, but how loudly can kindness and patience speak independently? The moments that even these disappear from my life are far too frequent anyway, and how obvious is the Source of virtue in me when it does occur? I shudder to think how the songs of Christmas sound in the ears of someone who is facing December’s cold truly alone. And I wonder how much help I could and should be. There is a so much going on beyond this physical realm and its appearances. How much of the vitriol cast at Christians and Christian culture springs from me, from us, making misguided attempts at spreading God’s name in a fallen world, and how much of it is silently wishing that God would reveal Himself through us? These are not the days of Peter and Paul, when the name of Jesus was blissfully new to the ears it fell upon. This is contemporary America, where many people have put years of cynicism, research, and science into the formulation of their atheism. I try to drop signs of my faith whenever possible, to make it so my Christianity is not easily missed, but when does that lead to more? How much do indirect reflections of God's love affect those unfamiliar with its Supplier? I don’t find those who say they don’t believe in God confessing their desperation at my doorstep. So when does the time come to speak out without just providing another opportunity for a snide, disillusioned rebuttal?
I am overjoyed at the prospect of Christmas, a day when I am surrounded by family and our mutual faith is acknowledged through the very act of living. And I wish a tree in the window was enough to make a statement of that faith to those outside it, not just a cultural nicety. When I do face death, I would rather do it freezing, clinging whole-heartedly to the promise of God with no other man in sight, than in the tepid arms of feigned satisfaction.