...probably just because of that verse about God's foolishness out-stripping man's wisdom.
It proves true with me time and time again with my dream life. Case in point is the time I dreamed I was a chicken back in 2005:
http://sdmen.blogspot.com/2006/05/last-night-i-dreamed-i-was-chicken.html
But now, that dream has stopped being so very funny.
It has come to the place of the thoughtful narrowing of the eyes. Of the curtain dropping on the daily stimulus for the sake of deep-soul reflection, at least for a few moments.
The idea of a bunch of people "being" chickens comes with a new meaning this week.
God Himself brought that dream back to mind with gale wind force.
Here is some of what I have heard:
Christians must eat specific chicken or not be Christians, some have said.
Others called it not so much a Christian event as a protest against the hyper-regulation of businesses by local mayors who said this chicken place must not open a franchise in their towns.
But, mostly, the march on these restaurants has been identified with professing Christians who do not agree with gay marriage.
This restaurant financially supports organizations that speak to this subject, and some at least, realize they are funding that position and by extension, those organizations. Some know this and are OK with it. Others don't know the peripherals at all.
These are the things I've heard.
I understand the philosophical bent. I understand taking action based on conviction. Everyone has a heart with some level of significant conviction about right and wrong, else we'd all be classed sociopaths. But the conviction I didn't see anywhere much was gratitude.
Not until afterward--even for me.
The dawning realization of why this thing grated unsettling.
Oh, yes. We missed that.
Gratitude for the luck/blessing/karma (whichever each might call it) of being born into a nation so wealthy that we have the luxury of making a political statement with our food choices. And so, out of respect for all those who must take a hand-out of beans and rice and, for a real treat, the occasional piece of fruit as their daily sustenance, and for those who don't get any food at all--yes, more out of respect for the mother somewhere who watched her child starve to death yesterday rather than for the one who watched her child eat--for the first mother, I fasted.
And when I broke my fast, I did it under divine directive, which was also borderline comical and according to God's timing.
I stood in a MacDonald's, planning to order an unsweetened tea and read a book as I had a couple of hours to wait there; but strangely--and sooner than I'd planned, I felt the unction to break my fast. I looked up at the menu, and the first thing I spied was the fish sandwich. Immediately, the story of the miracle of Jesus feeding the thousands came to mind. This. THIS is the food Jesus feeds. And what did He do before he disbursed the loaves and fish?
He gave thanks.
I ate as a sacrament, and I chuckled because it was far from shekinah glory on Mt. Sinai. It was just me, sitting in a MacDonald's restaurant in the middle of anywhere eating a fish sandwich. But it was nevertheless a sacrament. "May we allow Your humble thanks to touch our food, O Lord," I prayed. And I thought about my dream.
In it, I was one of many chickens on a truck. I was fortunate enough to be near the side of the truck, which was one of those metal livestock trucks punctured with round air holes. I could see through those air holes. From the air above this truck, a snide devil-voice spoke to us chickens.
"You know, you're only going to the slaughterhouse," he said derisively.
"Yes," I answered. "But the view along the way makes it worth it."
Me--a talking chicken looking out an air hole at a glorious view as I rushed toward death.
Comical for years.
Then suddenly, in the blink of an eye, a trumpet sounds, and I am caught up to a different place.
Suddenly this "silly" dream teaches me how to pray this day, when I am disappointed, when I am discouraged at how we are failing to demonstrate one of Your most benchmark characteristics--and one You specifically identified with food. You teach me to pray--you taught me 6 years ago--because You saw this day coming.
So now I do pray, from my "silly" dream: help me, Lord. First, thank You for placing me where I can see through the air holes, and now help me remember to look out, not to just cluck at the other chickens. Help me notice that not all chickens are positioned to see out, to watch the beauty of your creation outside this truck as that beauty rushes by. If others on the truck are to know, it must be described to them. Help me to inspire those who are bedded deeper in the ever-moving truck. Their's will be the greater faith if I can only be a better witness.
"Where there is no revelation, the people cast off restraint;
but blessed is he who keeps the law." Proverbs 29:18. You gave me this verse as a dream, I just didn't quite see it until now. I just laughed.
Sarah laughed. Until she bore the child. But the laughter became the namesake, for Isaac means, "he laughs." That laughter encompasses all You have to say from start to finish. From the silliness of Your first telling to the joy of the full revelation in the end, it is our destiny to laugh and be joyful in our relationship with You. It is perfection.
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