The Year of Living Biblically Part 24

--1 THESSALONIANS 5:18.

Day 263. I feel myself becoming an extremist--at least in some areas. Like with my obsession with gratefulness. I can't stop.

Just now, I press the elevator b.u.t.ton and am thankful that it arrives quickly.

I get onto the elevator and am thankful that the elevator cable didn't snap and plummet me to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

I go to the fifth floor and am thankful that I didn't have to stop on the second or third or fourth floor.

I get out and am thankful that Julie left the door unlocked so I don't have to rummage for my King Kong key ring.

I walk in, and am thankful that Jasper is home and healthy and stuffing his face with pineapple wedges.

And on and on. I'm actually muttering to myself, "Thank you . . . thank you . . . thank you."

It's an odd way to live. But also kind of great and powerful. I've never before been so aware of the thousands of little good things, the thousands of things that go right every day.

Sometimes my thank-yous are directed at no one in particular. It's more of an appreciation than a thanks. A reminder to myself: "Pay attention, pal. Savor this moment." But other times, when I'm in a believing phase, my thanks have an addressee. I'm thanking G.o.d, or the universal laws of nature--I'm not sure which--but it gives the act of thanking more weight.

And he lifted up his eyes on his disciples, and said: "Blessed are you poor, for yours is the kingdom of G.o.d."

--LUKE 6:20.

Day 264. In terms of stereotype busting, it's hard to beat Ralph Blair and his group of gay evangelical Christians. What could possibly top that? Evangelical Christians who don't believe in Jesus? Evangelical Christians who worship Poseidon? I don't know.

But I do want to spend some time with another group of evangelicals who, in their own way, have camped out far from the tent of Pat Robertson and Thomas Road Baptist Church. They're called the Red-letter Christians.

I'd never heard of the Red-letter Christians before my biblical year. They're still much smaller than the conservative evangelical lobby. They don't have TV shows with millions of viewers and 1-800 operators standing by. They don't have their own universities with facilities like the LeHaye Ice Hockey Arena. And, yet, even since the start of my year, I've watched them gain more and more national prominence.

The Red-letter Christians are a loose-knit, like-minded group of preachers, the most prominent of whom are a Philadelphia-based pastor named Tony Campolo, and Jim Wallis, the founder of Sojourners Sojourners magazine and author of magazine and author of G.o.d's Politics. G.o.d's Politics. Bono is an honorary member. Bono is an honorary member.

Wallis writes in Sojourners Sojourners about how he came up with the name. He was doing an interview at a Nashville radio station, and the DJ said: about how he came up with the name. He was doing an interview at a Nashville radio station, and the DJ said: "I'm a secular Jewish country music songwriter and disc jockey. But I love your stuff and have been following your book tour." He told me he loved my "riffs" and would like to spend an evening together just to get some lines for new music. "You're a songwriter's dream." Then he told me he believed we were starting a new movement, but noticed we hadn't come up with a name for it yet. "I've got an idea for you," he said. "I think you should call yourselves the Red-letter Christians, for the red parts of the Bible that highlight the words of Jesus. I love the red letter stuff."

In their own way, the Red-letter Christians are literalists. They probably would avoid that label, since the word has such negative connotations. And, true, they accept more figurative language in the Bible than, say, the Robertson camp. But they are literal in the sense that their goal is to return to the plain, primary, simple sense of Jesus's words, what Merriam-Webster's' Merriam-Webster's' entry for entry for literalism literalism calls "the ordinary meaning of a term or expression." calls "the ordinary meaning of a term or expression."

When Jesus said that you should invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, and the blind to your banquets, then you should. When Jesus talked about nonviolence, we should take him at his word. The problem with a lot of religion, says Campolo, is that people have "interpreted the Gospel so much, we've started to believe the interpretations instead of what Jesus said."

Campolo looks a bit like New York Yankees manager Joe Torre, but balder and with clunky gla.s.ses. He was, along with Rev. Jesse Jackson, one of Bill Clinton's spiritual advisers during Lewinskygate.

I call up Dr. Campolo, and I immediately like him because he addresses me as "Brother."

"Many of us in the evangelical community believe that evangelical Christianity has become captured and enslaved by the religious right," Campolo says right off the bat. "Its loyalty seems to be more to the platform of the Republican Party than to the radical teachings of Jesus."

Campolo and the Red-letter Christians claim not to be liberal or conservative, Democrat or Republican. Which may be true, but their social policies definitely are more MoveOn.org than Fox News. They're antiwar, anticonsumerism--and above all, antipoverty.

They point out that there are more pa.s.sages in the Bible about the poor than any other topic save idolatry--several thousand thousand, in fact. "The Christian call is to share," says Campolo. "There's nothing wrong with making a million dollars. There is is something wrong with keeping it." something wrong with keeping it."

Some megachurch pastors subscribe to a doctrine called the Prosperity Gospel. The idea is this: Stay faithful, go to church, pay your t.i.thes, and G.o.d will bless you by making you rich. G.o.d wants you to be successful. G.o.d has nothing against a Gulfstream jet and a private tennis court. The Red-letter Christians call this heresy. "Christianity is not a watered-down version of middle-cla.s.s morality," says Campolo.

As for h.o.m.os.e.xuality, Campolo is no Ralph Blair. He doesn't endorse gay marriage. But . . . at the same time, he believes it's not a major Christian issue. It wasn't what Jesus preached about. It's not something on which we should waste spiritual capital. Jesus was concerned with breaking down barriers and embracing society's outcasts.

At the end of our conversation, Dr. Campolo calls me Brother again, which I love. If I were in the punditry business, I'd guess that Campolo and his movement will keep gaining steam. They may never fill Madison Square Garden with their sermons, but they'll become a powerful force. They've already gotten enough press to inspire a backlash from those who've been called Black-letter Christians. These are Christians who say the Red-letter Christians ignore troublesome pa.s.sages that don't fit their agenda. Jesus may have a message of mercy, but he also has a message of justice. They cite his words in Matthew 10:34: "Do not think that I have come to bring peace on the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword."

Regardless, the Red-letter Christians are just one of the cracks in the Republican-evangelical love affair. Some evangelicals don't necessarily go as far as to embrace progressive politics but say instead that churches should stay out of politics. The New York Times New York Times ran an article in 2006 about Rev. Gregory A. Boyd, a pastor of a Minnesota megachurch. As the article says, Boyd "first became alarmed while visiting another megachurch's worship service on a Fourth of July years ago. The service finished with the chorus singing 'G.o.d Bless America' and a video of fighter jets flying over a hill silhouetted with crosses. 'I thought to myself, "What just happened? Fighter jets mixed up with the cross?"'" ran an article in 2006 about Rev. Gregory A. Boyd, a pastor of a Minnesota megachurch. As the article says, Boyd "first became alarmed while visiting another megachurch's worship service on a Fourth of July years ago. The service finished with the chorus singing 'G.o.d Bless America' and a video of fighter jets flying over a hill silhouetted with crosses. 'I thought to myself, "What just happened? Fighter jets mixed up with the cross?"'"

He gave a series of sermons saying that Christians should not seek political power but instead seek to have "'power under' others--winning people's hearts by sacrificing for those in need, as Jesus did." A thousand members of Boyd's flock were offended enough to leave the congregation. But another four thousand stayed on.

Jesus said to him, "If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me." --MATTHEW 19:21 --MATTHEW 19:21 Day 268. I bought The Purpose-Driven Life The Purpose-Driven Life today. This is the guide to a Christian life by Hawaiian-shirt-wearing megachurch minister Rick Warren that has been on the today. This is the guide to a Christian life by Hawaiian-shirt-wearing megachurch minister Rick Warren that has been on the New York Times New York Times best-seller list for about a half decade now. best-seller list for about a half decade now.

When I get it home and start to read it, the first thing I notice is that Warren has copyrighted the phrase "Purpose-driven." It has a little (r) (r) after it. This makes me angry. Did Jesus copyright "Turn the Other Cheek" after it. This makes me angry. Did Jesus copyright "Turn the Other Cheek"(r)? Did Moses trademark "Let My People Go?"

But then I see that, in fine print, it says that Warren gives away 90 percent of the Purpose-driven profits. Ninety percent. He reverse t.i.thes. Now I just feel small. It reminds me that I have to finish my own t.i.thing for the year. I go online and donate the final chunk of my 10 percent to a place called Warm Blankets Orphan Care International, which builds orphanages in Asia. The Bible commands us to take care of the fatherless, plus this charity got the maximum four-star rating on Charity Navigator's website.

As with that first t.i.thing back in September, I feel a mixture of G.o.d's pleasure and my own pain. But I think, or hope, I felt less pain than before. It comes back to the idea of surrendering. I still haven't been able to fully surrender my spirit or emotions, but I have at least surrendered some of my bank account. I have to embrace the surrender.

But I won't say another word about it. I've already violated Jesus's teaching: "When you give alms, sound no trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in synagogues and in the streets, that they may be praised by men."

Love . . . keeps no record of wrongs.

--1 CORINTHIANS 13:4-5 (NIV).

Day 270. There's a pa.s.sage in the New Testament that I keep coming back to. I think about it every day. It's not nearly as famous as the Sermon on the Mount or the Good Samaritan parable. It's mostly known for being read at weddings.

In the pa.s.sage, the Apostle Paul is writing to the Corinthians and tells them, "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs."

I think this pa.s.sage speaks to me because I violate this one so literally, especially that last part.

I keep a record of wrongs.

It's in my Palm Treo in a file I've labeled "Stuff." I figured the name "Stuff" was vague and dull enough that if someone found my Treo on the subway, he or she wouldn't bother to look at the file. Because I know it's not something I should be proud of.

The problem is, Julie is always insisting that I have a terrible memory. She says I'm constantly getting things wrong. I respond that my memory is about as good as her memory--decent but not great. And that she gets things wrong a lot, too. Then she demands an example, and I can never think of one. So I've started to keep a list.

I'm aware of the irony that I have to consult a list to prove that I have a decent memory.

Here's a sample from my list: * Vichyssoise is a potato soup like I said, not a fish soup like Julie said.

* The animated android Max Headroom did commercials for c.o.ke like I said, not Pepsi like Julie said.

* We saw an Irish movie called Waking Ned Devine Waking Ned Devine on our second date like I said, not another charmingly quirky movie called on our second date like I said, not another charmingly quirky movie called Saving Grace. Saving Grace.

You get the idea. I've actually put my list into action only one time. This is because it's kind of difficult to look at the list in public without exposing the secret of the list's existence. During an unpleasant argument about who left the microwave door open, I sneaked into the bathroom, clicked on my Treo, then reemerged with an example of the time she left the keys in a rental car, and we had to call Avis.

In short, the exact kind of thing Paul was preaching against. I decide that not only should I erase my "Stuff" file, but I should confess to Julie about its existence. So that's what I'm doing.

When I show Julie my list, she looks at it for a good ten seconds without talking.

Then she laughs.

"You're not angry?"

"How could I be angry?" she says. "It's just so heartbreaking that you need this."

"Well, I have trouble remembering things in the moment."

I take the Treo back from her, highlight the "Stuff" list, then press delete. I feel good. I've cleaned the slate on my Treo, and I've cleaned the slate with Julie. I know it may seem like a small thing, but the "Stuff" incident made me realize my worldview is too much about quantification. It consists of thousands of little ledgers. Everything--people included-- comes with a list of a.s.sets and liabilities. When I forgive, I file away the other person's wrongs for possible future use. It's forgiveness with an asterisk.

The Hebrew Scriptures encourage forgiveness--Leviticus tells us not to "bear any grudge"--but it's fair to say that it's a bigger theme in the New Testament. Start over. Be born again. Become a new creature in Christ.

Consider Jesus' parable of the prodigal son. Here's how the New Catholic Dictionary New Catholic Dictionary describes it: describes it: The story of the son who took his portion of his father's goods and squandered it by riotous living. When reduced to the depth of misery and obliged to eat the husks thrown to the swine, he bethought himself of his father and resolved to return to him penitent. The father was watching for him, greeted him affectionately, and killed the fatted calf to make merry over his return. The elder son resented the father's rejoicing. The father silenced him by the reminder that: "thou art always with me, and all I have is thine, but . . . thy brother was dead and is come to life, was lost and is found.

When I first read the parable of the prodigal son, I was perplexed. I felt terrible for the older brother. The poor man put in all these years of loyal service, and his brother skips town, has a wild good time, then returns, and gets a huge feast? It seems outrageously unfair.

But that's if you're thinking quant.i.tatively. If you're looking at life as a balance sheet. There's a beauty to forgiveness, especially forgiveness that goes beyond rationality. Unconditional love is an illogical notion, but such a great and powerful one.

The eyes of the Lord are in every place, keeping watch on the evil and the good.

--PROVERBS 15:3.

Day 271. A spiritual update: Back when I was in seventh grade, I had this delusion. I thought that the girls on whom I had crushes might be watching me. Not at school, mind you. They ignored me there. But in my room, when I was alone, they were watching. I wasn't sure how the logistics of this worked (psychic powers? Hidden cameras like The Truman Show The Truman Show?), but it put a lot of pressure on me.

I had to make sure to act cool in case Kim Glickman was observing. I'd put on a David Bowie LP not because I wanted to hear Bowie but because I wanted Kim to think think I wanted to hear Bowie. I'd brush my teeth in a rakishly nonchalant manner, just so she knew I was cool even when doing dental hygiene. Maybe she likes the tortured artists, I thought. So sometimes I'd channel Sid Vicious and do something crazy, like throw my three-ring school binder across my room and watch the pages splatter on the floor. (I'd then spend fifteen minutes cleaning up and putting the pages back into the rings.) I wanted to hear Bowie. I'd brush my teeth in a rakishly nonchalant manner, just so she knew I was cool even when doing dental hygiene. Maybe she likes the tortured artists, I thought. So sometimes I'd channel Sid Vicious and do something crazy, like throw my three-ring school binder across my room and watch the pages splatter on the floor. (I'd then spend fifteen minutes cleaning up and putting the pages back into the rings.) Sad, I know. Luckily, I got over that in ninth grade. But now I'm starting to have a similar feeling. Kim can't see me. But maybe something can. Something is keeping track of my life, of all of our lives. My existence is not a meaningless collection of actions, so I should take seriously every decision. I don't know what the payoff will be, if anything. But someone is writing this all down in the Book of Life.

When they had rowed about three or four miles, they saw Jesus walking on the sea and drawing near to the boat. --JOHN 6:19 --JOHN 6:19 Day 272. My brother-in-law Eric does not embody the biblical virtue of humility. He's a prideful man.

He's Harvard educated, as he'll remind you not infrequently, and he's distressingly smart, as he also makes clear. He'll lecture you on everything from SALT II treaties to the symbolism in Zola's novels. I'm sure if Eric were around in biblical times, he'd have been chief architect of the Tower of Babel.

These days, Eric is getting his PhD in social psychology at Columbia, which means he says things like this: "Humans are a fascinating species." As if our struggles are all for his intellectual amus.e.m.e.nt.

When I went on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, Eric was my phone-a-friend. It seemed the most obvious choice. But when I called him at the $32,000 level, he choked. It was one of the most bittersweet moments of my life--bitter because I lost $32,000, but sweet because I thought he'd get taught a lesson: Pride goeth before the fall.

That lesson didn't quite pan out. The Millionaire Millionaire fiasco didn't seem to dent his ego one bit. He still enjoys tormenting me with his superior knowledge. And the unfortunate thing is, the man reads everything. fiasco didn't seem to dent his ego one bit. He still enjoys tormenting me with his superior knowledge. And the unfortunate thing is, the man reads everything.

Today, he's over at our apartment and gleefully telling me about the latest religion-themed article he read: "So, did you hear about that study about Jesus walking on water?"

"No."

"This scientist says it's because the conditions in the Mediterranean at the time caused ice floes on the Sea of Galilee."

"I see."

Eric chuckles. He actually doesn't think that scientific explanations of miracles are worthy of serious discussion. They are, he says, more like crackpot science that tries to explain the physics of Road Runner cartoons.

But for me, such studies do present a problem.

The rivers of Egypt turning bloodred? It could have been red algae or volcanic ash. The darkness sweeping over the land? It might have been the khamsin, a hot wind of the Sahara, churning up the sand. When Moses sweetened the bitter desert water at Marah with a tree? He could have been using an ion exchange resin. Not that I know what that means. But it sounds convincing.

I don't need to hear scientific explanations of miracles. It plays too perfectly into my innate skepticism, which still runs deep.

I know plenty of religious people who see miracles as myths, not literal truth. They say that we don't need to believe that Joshua actually stopped the sun in the sky so he could finish a battle; the story can still have beauty and resonance even if Joshua didn't get a divine extension. And I imagine that, if I go religious at the end of this year, that's the camp I'll belong to.

But if I'm going to be literal, I must at least try to believe they happened and that G.o.d overturned the natural order. It's a heck of a mental hurdle and, as with creationism, one I'm not sure I can clear.

I take some measure of consolation from a book I just read. It's called The Battle for G.o.d The Battle for G.o.d by former-nun-turned-religion-scholar Karen Armstrong. by former-nun-turned-religion-scholar Karen Armstrong.

Armstrong makes the intriguing argument that people in biblical times did not believe the miracles happened. Or not in the same way that fundamentalists today do, anyway. Armstrong says that the ancients viewed the world simultaneously in two different ways. One was logos, logos, the other the other mythos. mythos. Logos was the ancients' rational and practical side, the factual knowledge they used in farming or building houses. Mythos was the stories that gave their lives meaning. For instance, the story of the Exodus was not to be taken as factual but as a tale filled with significance about freedom from oppression. The ancients didn't necessarily believe that it happened exactly as told--with six hundred thousand people trudging through the desert for forty years. But it was true in the larger sense, in the sense that it gave context to their lives. Logos was the ancients' rational and practical side, the factual knowledge they used in farming or building houses. Mythos was the stories that gave their lives meaning. For instance, the story of the Exodus was not to be taken as factual but as a tale filled with significance about freedom from oppression. The ancients didn't necessarily believe that it happened exactly as told--with six hundred thousand people trudging through the desert for forty years. But it was true in the larger sense, in the sense that it gave context to their lives.

Fundamentalism, Armstrong says, is a modern phenomenon. It's the attempt to apply logos to mythos, to turn legend into scientific truth. I don't wholly buy Armstrong's thesis. It smacks of wishful thinking to me. I don't think the distinctions in the biblical minds were that black and white. But given the choice between her theory and fundamentalism, I'll take hers.

"Whoever strikes his father or his mother shall be put to death." --EXO D U S 21:15 --EXO D U S 21:15 Day 273. When Jasper wakes up from his nap, I go to retrieve him. He is standing at the edge of his crib, his hair sticking up in back, Alfalfa-style. In his hand he is clutching a plastic bowling pin, which is his version of a security blanket.

I lift him out. Jasper grins. It is a grin meant to convey that he is about to do something spectacularly witty--and then he hits me in the face with a bowling pin.

"Don't do that," I say. I have on my stern James Earl Jones voice.

He takes that to mean "Do it again, but harder." So he winds up and delivers another blow to my face. And another. These ones were powerful leave-a-red-mark-on-my-forehead hits.

"Jasper!" I say. "Say you're sorry."

Jasper just grins.

"You do not hit people in the face with bowling pins. It's very dan- gerous. That's a no-no."

He looks at me bewildered, then angry. How could I not see the humor in a flawlessly executed bowling-pin-to-the-face maneuver?

"Apologize to me, please."

"No."

"Apologize."

"No."

This is going to be ugly.

The Hebrew Bible says that hitting your parents can be punishable by death. Instead I turn the other cheek. I ignore my son.

Ignoring a rebellious son is, coincidentally, a strategy recommended by a secular parenting book I read months ago. So I put him on the ground, turn my back to him, and cross my arms. I look like a model posing for the label on the Mr. Clean bottle.

He starts to whimper.

"Say you're sorry, and we can go play," I say.

"No."

"No hitting people," I say. I say it with decisiveness, confident that I have thousands of years of tradition behind me.

I keep my back to him. He grabs my leg.