God the Father and Embryo

Advent suggests so many mysteries of God’s patience. One rarely commented case is God as Father and embryo. It is extra Biblical so imagination can only begin to tell the bizarre tale. Gabriel’s annunciation and appearance to Joseph begins the period of waiting and soul searching, but a remarkable gap exists in the Advent story.  Luke 1:56 makes this cursory remark as though it would suffice:

Mary stayed with Elizabeth for about three months and then returned home.

Presumably the second trimester of Mary’s pregnancy is treated with a passing reference. If we simply take the Divine conception of Jesus at face value, there was a moment in human history where God existed as Father in the heavens and embryo in Mary’s uterus. Paradox of paradoxes. The Creator in utero. Luke does not give us what we need so desperately to peer into this Divine mystery. Our innate curiosities explode with anticipation of any insight and insider information. Daily changes in the body of a young girl, budding woman, happened with virtually no commentary. I find this equally disturbing as Father God choosing Mary as the mother of a Divinely human being. If such a tale should be at least give us some gory details, right? However, God the Eternal Spirit grew as a material embryo, and the record is mute. Could it be that Mary had a ‘normal’ pregnancy? Preposterous. Such an assumption assaults our over saturated imaginations.

We see the depiction of God the Father resting a globe on his knee as imagined by Pieter de Grebber as very plausible and expected. In the full painting, God the Father invites Christ to sit next to him on the throne in Heaven following the Ascension of Christ. This makes sense to most of us Christians. The majesty of the ‘old man in the sky’ is familiar. Long white beard. Golden cloak and white robe. God the Father must be such. However this presumed God of all might and capability took a  young child, made her a woman and subjected her to a natural pregnancy.

The mysterious embryo God indwells or inhabits known as Jesus, the one to shake the Heavens and to redeem the Earth, exists as a feeble and frail cluster of cells growing ever so quietly. Is it possible God the embryo grew like any other? Risking the possibility of miscarriage? Venturing into the plausible realm of complications of a natural birth? Mary’s stomach ever so slowly demonstrated signs of the most ridiculous birth tale in human history. Hips widening to bear the weight of the immaterial God. Breasts developing milk for the nourishment of the Nourisher. Life giver seeking life support from a young child mother. A tragic tale of early pregnancy would set the stage for this most wonderfully awkward narrative we Christians extol. This is the God we celebrate at Advent.

Such an Advent moment waiting for the Embryonic God overwhelms my sensibilities. The illogical and improbable, the absurd and ludicrous, the natural and expected? Surely God as Father would make a grand entrance into the world? There should be no pain, no labor, no normalcy. Sustained through the blood of a young girl.  The signs we seek are so often unrequited with silence and a glaring command to wait and be patient. God must not rely on such weakness and expected means. How could an all powerful God do such a ridiculous thing as to make a Divinely human conceived being be so base and common?

The patience and mystery of God the Father using his own natural means of procreation to reach us all is a powerful demonstration of the degree we must wait and anticipate His coming in our lives. If an Embryonic God did not burst forth from Mary’s uterus, what makes us think God will do the same in the wombs of our dilemma’s? If this God would use natural processes to perform the most extravagant of supernatural appearances, why can’t Father God do the same for us today? Through the naturally supernatural environments we inhabit each moment.

Advent teaches us that we can experience God in the waiting of mundane life. God the Embryo lives in us, through us, when we open ourselves to birth of God’s Spirit. The possibility is just as unlikely and feeble when we encounter such moments of nascent Divinity inside. But these moments of love, joy and peace;  patience, kindness and goodness; faithfulness, gentleness and self-control resemble the methods of the Embryonic God of this Advent story.

Loss

Bougerau’s depiction of the grief that Adam and Eve display when discovering their dead son Abel is a haunting vision of every parent’s worst nightmare. What do you do when you have to bury your child? Even worse, when your son slays another? These inexplicable moments of anguish cannot be spoken, merely painted.

Experience, the Teacher

Experience is what enables you to recognize a mistake when you make it again.

–Earl Wilson

Now on TheOOZE.com: “A Super Sized Lesson”

Read my retelling of my son’s fascination with super heroes now on theOOZE.com.

Now on TheOOZE.com: “Pancake Devotions”

I am delighted to share my recent success with TheOOZE.com. You can now read me there, too. I’ll be posting works on family and fatherhood in the coming weeks there. My first piece is a contemplation of my devotional life after fatherhood that includes the spiritual discipline of making pancakes!

Damn You George Lucas!

 

 

My childhood obsession with George Lucas’ creation has come full circle in my son. I never knew what I looked like at ages 5 through 9. Now I do. Here’s a glimpse of my world through the battery of questions my son is throwing at me over the past few weeks. We watched Return of the Jedi once and a whole new world was opened to him. His brilliant four year old brain has to make sense of all of the intricacies. Mind you this particular line of questioning occurred during the two blissful hours of movie viewing. It took about one full hour for the barrage to stop and his eyes to just observe this new universe. Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

Son: Dada, who are the furry little bears?

Me: Ewoks.

Son: Are they like Chewbacca?

Me: Kind of.

Son: Why is Chewbacca taller than the Ewoks?

Me: He is a Wookie.

Son: Are there other Wookies?

Me: No.

Son: Where are all the Wookies? Isn’t Chewbacca lonely?

Me: They died in the Clone Wars. He is friends with Han Solo.

Son: Why did they all die?

Me: The Empire won the Clone Wars. Most of the Jedis died during the Clone Wars, too. Only Obi Wan, Yoda and Anakin survived.

Son: Who is Anakin?

Me: Darth Vader. He’s Luke Skywalker’s dad.

Son: Why does he have two names?

Me: His name is Anakin but when he turned to the Dark Side he was called Darth Vader.

Son: Does Luke go to the Dark Side?

Me: Just watch the movie. And, no he doesn’t.

Son: Why does Darth Vader wear a black suit?

Me: He is burned during a fight with Obi Wan.

Son: But Obi Wan is dead, right?

Me: In Return of the Jedi he is already dead, but Obi Wan was Anakin’s teacher. He helped Anakin become a Jedi.

Son: Why did Anakin fight his teacher?

Me: Anakin was going to join the Emperor and the Dark Side.

Son: Where is the Emperor?

Me: He’s in the Death Star. Just watch. You’ll see Luke will fight him and Darth Vader.

Son: Dada, does Luke die?

Me: No, please watch the movie. It’s half way over.

Son: Dada, who is the hairy creature in Jabba’s Palace?

Me: Please I’ll tell you after the movie is over. Just watch.

Son: Dada, does Han die?

Me: No.

Son: Does Leia die?

Me: No.

Son: Does Chewbacca die?

Me: No.

Son: Who is the Ewok that dies?

Me: I don’t know. Please watch the movie.

Son: Dada, I love you.

Me: I love you, too. Please watch the movie.

I’m in big trouble. Damn you George Lucas!

Incubation

photo © 2008 Hartwig HKD | more info (via: Wylio)

Our son’s new home for God knows how long would be a plastic box. Wires poking in through holes that allowed bits of air to penetrate his man made space. So fragile. So paradoxical. The gift of life that God gave to my wife and I now is in the hands of postmodern science. Despite the wires, beeps and buzzes surrounding him, I realized only One would determine his future state. I felt so powerless despite all of the brilliance injected into the neo-natal intensive care unit. The more science offered, the more I feared. Because my son had a unique place in the world. In my world. But to the nurses, doctors and specialists he was just another case, another baby in a line of babies in plastic spaces with buzzes, beeps and wires.

The world we make is so much like those incubation boxes. Sterile. Superficial. We feel so capable – impenetrable in our little places. But God is the one sustaining and working in and through and despite our technologies.

My son taught me that I had to believe in One greater than the incubator during this challenging time. Would God let me son emerge from his new man-made womb? God is good. But is he good enough to rebirth my son from these trappings?

Authority and Submission

Middle of the night. We hadn’t seen our son for hours. Nurse walks in: ”Just rest. We’re going to keep your son in our nursery over night. Don’t worry. He’ll be okay. It’s best if you rest.” she consoled.

In a hazed, uncertain, complicit framework, my wife and I agreed. This would mark one of the longest emotional periods of waiting. What could we do? We were admitted. Under the direction of hospital staff and administrators who knew the ropes far better than we did.

Authority is a necessary evil. Submitting is tough most of the time. Especially when you have a free spirit like I do and a determined spouse whose estrogen levels are all over the place. We accepted reluctantly thinking we would have our son in just a bit upon waking. We were sorely wrong.

God places leadership in our lives to guide us, protect us, and instruct us when we don’t have the bearings, the emotional fortitude, or the sobriety to know where to go. Our teachers wore scrubs and spoke in gentle tones as though we were children. Somehow that worked at first. The tough part would come later when we gained our senses and wanted our son to come home.

Famous Last Words

Words have a powerful way of embedding themselves into our minds. Famous last words. My wife and I heard these: “We’ll need to take your son to the nursery. His temperature is low and we’ll have to watch him.”

They sounded so harmless, even innocent. Okay. We’re in the hospital under their supervision. Implicitly we trusted. Was it the right thing to do? Our tiny, precious first son in the control of others. Something so unnatural about this process ensued. Little did we know it would be a long, emotionally charged season of waiting.

Patience is a bitch. God teaches us to wait by waiting. Doing it is really the only way to get it, and man does this really bite. But, it hurts so good. Patience is tough in the moment, but like words, it embeds itself deep within.

 

It’s fairly easy to tell a patient person during a time of waiting. They get it. They are good at it. They don’t complain or get anxious.

 

So the best advice I could suggest has been taken and used globally to create an athletic shoe empire. Nike’s famous last words apply: “Just Do It.”

 

So we let our son go. And the waiting began.

 

Losing Heat

That brief ephemeral moment – and the few moments in the flurry of testing, cleaning, spanking for the first cry, and medical manipulation of my newborn son – passed so quickly. Watching my parents, my wife’s parents and my wife pass this delicate little person around the room all swaddled in a blanket seemed too dreamy and surreal to be my own existence. Pictures, smiles, tears of joy. This could be too perfect.

 

I had experienced life on the harsher side of human existence. As a small child, I suffered with epilepsy. Multiple seizures per day for a few key years of my childhood. My world was not safe and healthy. I cannot imagine the pain my mother and father felt as they watched, prayed and waited for science to figure out what would make my little neurons over-fire at such a heartbreaking pace. My wife and I resolved to accept the Lamaze teacher’s sage advice, “You just want a healthy child.” My parents didn’t have that luxury, would I?

 

“Mr. Bobo you should cover your son’s head. You don’t want him to lose too much heat,” our pregnant nurse warned.

I never knew how true that could be. The real world can be cold. A place heat is lost and health compromised. I wanted my son to know that he came into a loving world that would embrace him from the start. I would be sorely mistaken just a few hours later.

Photo credit: Images of Elements

Hello, son!

In the final minutes before the birth of my son, I saw my wife’s face flushed from pushing, fatigued and, well, spent from a long, arduous twenty four hour labor. I saw our pregnant nurse on one leg. Yes, she was due months after my son. It was reassuring to know that she was with us and going to undergo the same trauma in the coming weeks. I held the other leg and had no idea what was about to happen.

It was reminiscent of a slow motion scene in a dramatic film. As my son’s head emerged, I could only think of greeting him into the world. “Hello, son.” I spoke softly. And then the most amazing thing happened! He turned his delicate head toward me and looked in my direction. My not yet fully birthed son heard my voice and knew it. Those months spent speaking into my wife’s slowly growing stomach culminated in this perfect glance. Before Josiah was fully birthed, I wanted to let him know that we have been anticipating that moment. He needed to understand the family he was joining has a loving set of parents and an extended family watching him as he makes his way from the very beginning. 

Years later I cannot forget this precious moment. I see this as God’s gift to me. “Hello, Michael,” He gently speaks, “welcome to My world.” 

But it was not just a gift to me. It is a beautiful picture of God calling us. The Father likewise softly speaks to us, seeking us to turn and acknowledge His presence. He’s been there every moment from our nascence until now. Whether He’s whispering or shouting for our attention, He has been there all along. 

Read The Bobo Blog

A Super Fixation

As a scholar of life, and a young father, I make many mistakes that are clear when I see and hear what my son says and does. He is a mirror for my soul. We have moved beyond pancake devotions, but he’s got another fixation. He loves super heroes. He really, really loves them.

Recently, we decided to take down some of my G. I. Joes and Star Wars figures to offer incentives for his good behavior. He’s clearly motivated by rewards and I would rather goad him to proper living than try to coerce him. He’s got a will of iron (Iron Man is one of his favorites!), and we’ve learned the hard way that baiting works far better for us all.

Enter the real hero – the chore chart. Simple but powerful. Do a week of chores; get a super hero. Needless to say, he’s got a lot of super heroes.

This fascination with superheroes extends to his fashion. I am often found donning a blanket cape, a hat of some kind, and a sword. It is ridiculous and humbling to write, but in my attempts to meet my son where he’s at, I concede. Each morning, each evening, it’s one game. Super heroes.

The true lesson that I’m learning in this latest stage of his development is my son needs to know there are defenders, super heroes, who will make things right. Powerful forces who will right the wrongs. Kill the crabs and spiders – his typical foes. And, make sure that the house is safe for us all.

I need to be a similar figure. A defender. A protector. A deliverer.

Wow! What a tough life lesson. I see my weaknesses and failures continually, but through a three-year old’s eyes, I’m a fellow hero in the fight against all the bad guys. I hope this does not fade in my son’s life, but I am not so naïve to deny the fact he will see me through new lenses each year.

The life lesson is maintaining the relationship and connection, which allows for a flawed being such as I to still have a label. Even if he drops the prefix “super,” I would be delighted to be a “hero” in his eyes.

Read The Bobo Blog

Pancake Devotions

photo © 2011 rob_rob2001 | more info (via: Wylio)

As the clock turns just past six, I expect the sound of little feet and a very loud voice entering my room. My son is a loud talker from 5:30 to 9:00 in the morning. I used to wonder why the volume and the intensity at these God forsaken hours only, but here’s what I have learned. Although I am not a morning person, and I have a tough time getting out of bed even on my best days, there is a spiritual discipline that I am growing in. My devotions do not consist of a book or silence or the usual methods I have been coached in throughout my Christian upbringing. There is little time or focus upon prayer. God is not really present – at least not consciously as a focus for my son and I. You may rightly wonder how can these be devotions? Michael, you’ve got to be fooling me. My usual morning routine is one of many joys I have learned to appreciate since becoming a father. It is part of the soul making that happens with my wife and me.

Our recent topic of devotion has been pancakes. In recent months, I have been in the school of culinary arts in one area exclusively. Needless to say, my son loves the process of making pancakes. I use the phrase “the process” because he does not always eat all of what he makes. This is key to the devotional aspect. He is an event oriented person. The consequences are not really what matter for him. To what extent truly is irrelevant. My “mature” mind tries to educate him in the value of savoring the product of his labors, but he will not have it. And, so I learn, and he teaches me, that processes are in fact important, too.

The routine has been established by now. He helps pour the ingredients and mix them, while I coach him. It must be comical to see me deliver the usual fifty or more, “Be careful with . . .” as he gingerly dumps the flour, baking powder, sugar and other items into a mixing bowl. His sense of satisfaction at getting most of the ingredients into the bowl is endearing – even though it means more cleanup after the fact. I have learned the hard way to keep him away from the hot flame in our gas stove. To all you mothers reading this flinching now at the thought of this, yes, he has been burned, not too severely, and I have since succumbed to my wife’s wisdom and cautionary nature. I do the cooking now.

I am not too sure if his motives are entirely pure. Sometimes I think the real joy is his opportunity to sneak in some cartoons while Dada cooks the batter. Regardless, the process has had its impact upon my soul.

Why share these mundane details with you? This is all part of the discipline. Just as much as he enjoys the process of making pancakes and the time spent slowly eating some of the fruit of his labor, we too have the opportunity to savor our relationships with God and with each other. The process does matter.

Initially, I was task oriented in my approach to my son’s requests. My list consisted of the following steps. All of which were done in the most legalistic fashion.

1 – get up despite my aching body’s resistance.
2 – organize the ingredients.
3 – hurry through mixing process.
4 – try to be patient with my son’s inevitable slip ups.
5 – use TV as a baby sitter while I hurriedly pour, flip and cook the pancakes.
6 – coax my fixated son to sit down and try to eat.
7 – wait for him to eat at a turtle’s pace.
8 – rush to clean up after watching the clock with each bite.
9 – hurriedly get dressed for work.
10 – kisses, hugs, rush to work, be late, feel defeated.

Forgive me if I am belaboring the point, but I firmly feel this speaks to our relationships. How often do we perform a duty to get to a destination that we wanted all along, meanwhile we miss the steps involved and the opportunities to savor each moment? How often does our economic spirituality rob us from true devotion?

What I see in this lesson from a three year old’s craving is so instructive. My perspective is slowly shifting and I am learning how to savor the steps. In doing so, I find myself enjoying each one and learning along the way. A child truly can instruct. I suppose Jesus was right after all. Imagine that!

Why and how could this really be spiritual?

Why? – Because it reveals the muck of my heart at a time I would rather be doing something else, namely sleeping.

How? – It stems from a loving sacrifice for my son. It requires a measure of both love and sacrifice to really effect the stuff of our souls. That’s the bad news I suppose for some, but the results are clear.

So, here’s how I envision pancake devotions as a spiritual discipline. Getting out of bed is still challenging at times, but I try to see each day as an opportunity and an adventure.

1st – perspective going into the process is vital to finding worth and meaning.

2nd – consistency is key. My son’s appetite for making pancakes has not changed for the past month or more. Every day there is a desire to do it. His persistence, which used to baffle me, is really a discipline. I am a person who loves variety; it is challenging to repeat a task already completed. Why conquer what is already defeated? Because there is a spiritual discipline in continually going through steps together. The consistency, like my son’s appetite, creates time for the steps to work for you.

3rd – savor each step. There will be messes and ingredients will get on the counter top. Time will come to clean up, but don’t miss the making for the cleaning. Being there is what makes this process truly delightful.

4th – enjoy your partner in the task. Whether it is God in your quiet time, your spouse in a book shared together, or whomever else you meet. This moment by moment realization of the other is crucial to gaining a healthier attitude. What else are you there for but to share in the process?

5th – repeat often.

Obviously pancakes are what work for me, but I suggest you apply these principles in your family and in your relationships. They are soul transforming. As simple as this may sound, it is a discipline. How often do we miss the process for the end results? How often do we read through, rush through, gloss through . . . just to do it? I have spent years of my adult life racing and moving and have not gained the same degree of spiritual insight as I have in these mornings with my son.

I have to laugh at the irony that God has placed in my life. I see each morning with a renewed outlook. My son is my spiritual coach and he doesn’t even know it. He has not produced a fancy DVD series or amassed great fortune. He just loves to storm in my room, yell at me, pull me out of bed and start our daily routine. Our time together is all the compensation he needs. The least I could do is savor the process.

So, next time you go to devote to God, remember the pancakes: perspective, consistency, savor, enjoy, repeat.

Read The Bobo Blog