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Megan L. Anderson is a freelance writer and editor whose sarcasm led her into youth ministry at Russiaville Friends Church in Indiana. She enjoys watching the BBC and challenging Macklemore’s prowess when it comes to thrift shop bargain hunting
Brought up by parents at opposite poles of the spectrum (my mother a temperance union officer and my father an amateur connoisseur) I’ve wrestled with conflicting ideas about alcohol’s place in the Christian lifestyle. With no definitive bible verse stating whether the consumption of alcohol is right or wrong, we find ourselves sipping from different theological cups. I’ve seen believers turn defensive and hypercritical toward each other at the mere mention of alcohol, breaking into spats that rival the ugliest barroom brawls. But I’ve discovered that instead of outlining a code of judgment, God’s word uses the subject of alcohol to pop the cork on a discussion of how to live a Spirit-filled life.
What does it mean to identify as a Quaker today? I’m not sure. I’d probably be more excited about owning that attribution were this 19th century America with characters like Alice Paul, Elizabeth Fry, and Susan B. Anthony pursuing justice. (Quaker tradition appeals to my inner feminist.) But where are those quietly raging heroines and heroes of the faith now? Early Friends forged their reputation via holy troublemaking; how are we distinguished today?
Are we quietly raging against the tides of oppression and injustice, or simply quiet?
God hears everything I say. And I’m a little embarrassed. All my complaints. Every bitter remark. Each selfish lament. He heard me say that? Cue the red cheeks and regret.
But there’s also comfort: “Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live” (Psalm 116:2). In a world of ads, texts, tweets, Facebook posts, junk mail, e-mail – God’s undivided attention means something. My words are heard through the din, and they are valued by the God who spoke light, sound, color, and life itself into existence. Incredible!
by Megan L. Anderson
I have a fondness for cemeteries. Most people don’t know how to respond when learning that fact. I imagine images of cloaked figures or old-timey grave robbers flash across their minds’ eyes. What good could I possibly be up to in a place like that? Sure, people visit graves of loved ones and meander around for genealogy research from time to time; that’s understandable. But those of us who stay for hours at a stretch, not there for anyone in particular? That’s just weird, right? Off-putting at least.