The deep rays surrounded her, burning deep into her skin. Her tears were flame, paths of umber scoring her cheeks. She screamed at the sea below, at the calm waves whispering against the rocks. Her hands trembled on the railing, knuckles white and stiff against the gray wood.
Where was the peace promised? Where were the crashing waves swallowing the cliffs? Where was the roar of raging wildfire on the horizon? A silent disc floated on a raft of molten gold, bathing in her pain. The roar inside her soul grew, tinting the gently waving leaves with its inferno. Her eyes ignited in the sun, searing the tears from her mind.
The memory of his hand was a phantom on her shoulder and she whirled to empty air. Flame faded, leaving black emptiness. Charred and crumbled, she lay staring into the fading glow of stone that cooled but never turned to ash.
As someone who enjoys learning history, I have noticed a human tendency to confuse culture with morality. Every society throughout history has developed its own cultural norms: clothing styles, hair styles, living arrangements, traditions, entertainment, etc. These cultural norms are usually responses to environmental factors like economics, weather, or topography. The key word regarding any cultural element is “develop.” Environmental factors change. People migrate to and from other areas, bringing their own cultural elements with them.
In every instance of change, conflict arises between cultures. Both hold the other to be immoral in their standards. (Pants instead of skirts?! Rock and roll?!) The children exposed equally to both easily absorb elements of both creating an entirely new culture, considered immoral by both original cultures alike.
In the midst of all of this cultural change and conflict, actual moral principles are often discarded in order to defend culture. Life is only valued among those holding to the desired culture. Property is only protected for those who embrace the desired culture. Kindness is only allowed or acknowledged between those of the same culture. Wear the prescribed clothes, enjoy the prescribed entertainment, speak the prescribed language, practice the prescribed traditions, work the prescribed jobs. Different is evil and must be prevented at all costs.
The God-created will and capacity to choose combined with our longing for security and belonging repeatedly embroils humanity in this turmoil. Our choices become our religion, and our religion becomes a prison. We cast even our own freedom to choose into a dungeon dug out of our own fear, shackled by compulsion that only feeds our terror and rage.
God created us with the ability to be creative, to adapt, to learn, to make independent decisions based on both need and desire. Like a single human body is made up of millions of cells with different functions, of hundreds of parts performing different tasks, so is humanity made up of incredible variety. What one cannot do, another can. What one cannot understand another can teach. What one cannot imagine another can produce. Without what the one does, the other cannot meet its potential.
If we never allow any challenge to our cultural norms, we leave no room for self-reflection. Without self-reflection we cannot grow, and growth is essential to human life. Traditions are not evil. New is not evil. Turning either into a religion that vilifies anyone else is.
Romans 14:16–20 (CSB): Therefore, do not let your good be slandered, for the kingdom of God is not eating and drinking, but righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit. Whoever serves Christ in this way is acceptable to God and receives human approval. So then, let us pursue what promotes peace and what builds up one another.
A unified human body cannot by nature include only cells of the exact same type. It is unified precisely because of its many different parts working in harmony. Humanity cannot by nature be uniform either. Only by celebrating and harmonizing our myriad individuality can we function as a unified whole. Culture cannot become religion.
Once when Jesus was teaching in the temple courtyard he watched people coming to leave their tithes in the treasury boxes. Apparently that had become something of a show, with large amounts being brought. I imagine that, considering Pharisaical policing of detail, a great deal of arguing and haggling over correct calculations occurred around the temple gates where the boxes stood. While all that display was going on, a beggar woman entered the courtyard. A widow with no family to care for her, she belonged to the ranks of the needy for whom those treasury funds were supposed to provide. She quietly moved to the boxes and dropped in two mites, tiny copper coins that equalled a fraction of today’s penny. When Jesus praised her faith as an example to his followers, He pointed out that those tiny coins were all she owned yet she offered them for others.
This morning my eight year old son dug into his wallet for money to give. He brought out a handful of wadded cash, including a ten dollar bill that I knew was a treasured possession. I asked him if he was sure, if he knew what was in his hand and really wanted to give it. His response was immediate. “Oh yes, I want to put my ten dollar bill in!” When the basket was passed, that ten and a few ones besides went in accompanied by a delighted grin. The almost empty wallet went back in his pocket and occasioned no further thought from its owner.
Like the widow, my little son depends entirely on others for his needs. The money in his wallet is carefully hoarded from birthday gifts or “pay” for helping family members. Opportunities to increase that little stash are few and far between, but that never even entered his mind. In his mind, the money placed in that basket is a gift to God, and he wanted God to have all of it.
Both the widow and my son understood that something much greater than their mite covered their needs. They knew that God’s love holds far more power than a handful of cash or any physical wealth. In the simplicity of that trust, no room existed for questions or calculations. All that they thought of was what they could offer in love. What they truly offered was not two tiny coins or a ten dollar bill, and their gift filled more than a single moment. They offered a faithful heart and filled eternity with it.
The term “performance worship” appears frequently in certain religious circles, usually referring to specific behaviors or practices that carry emotional appeal. The term is something of an oxymoron, but the idea of insincere approach to God – of “performing” rather than offering – is far from neglected. God addresses this error in his people over and over throughout their history, and it looks very different from our usual definition.
When Saul faced the Philistines near Gilgal, the army he led was far smaller and less well equipped than that of the enemy. Samuel was delayed in arriving to appeal for God’s help, and some lost courage. Saul was so concerned that his ragtag soldiers would flee and he would lose his newly appointed kingship that he decided to perform a public sacrifice. He wasn’t concerned about God’s help; if he had been he wouldn’t have been worried about losing the army. He performed the ritual for his own benefit, to make himself look connected to God so that the soldiers would have more confidence in him and not run away. When Samuel did arrive shortly after this performance, he told Saul that it had cost him everything God had so carefully prepared for him. Offering the sacrifice was not wrong, any more than Samuel offering it was wrong. The sole difference lay in the fact that Saul’s act was one of performance rather than worship.
The prophet Micah wrote to the people of God during their height as a kingdom, yet he rebuked them. Temple life and ritual thrived, and the smoke of meat and incense rose constantly. Unfortunately, at the same time, rulers and judges took bribes and made decisions that increased their own power; priests and teachers worked for hire and said whatever made sure they would continue to be paid. They did all this claiming God’s authority and protection, using His Name and His proscribed rituals as a grand performance solidifying their position and control. Micah told them that no amount of blood or incense, not even the surrender of their own children, could convince God of their righteousness in that state. What He expected was both far simpler and far more difficult. They had to love Him more than themselves and place their trust in Him rather than in their own control.
The Pharisees in the time that Jesus walked the earth considered themselves the enforcers of law. They policed the smallest aspects of everyday life, demanding details that were not specified by God but that created an appearance of difference from “heathens.” They wore special clothes, recognized only teachers in specific hierarchies that had evolved from their own conceits, and quickly suppressed anything that even hinted at disagreement. Jesus called them whitewashed graves, and said they were like cups that had been polished outside but the inside had never even been washed. The Pharisees offered nothing of themselves to God; instead they performed dramatically to draw eyes to themselves and ensure their continuing stranglehold on the hearts and minds of the people.
This performance, this outward appearance, not only had nothing to do with holiness, but actively shut the doors of Heaven on souls who might otherwise have seen God. All the attention had been diverted; all the focus followed the wrong leader. Jesus said that such performers expended all their efforts on making converts, but that they weren’t converting souls for God; they were turning people into the children of Hell.
God isn’t looking for performers, for individuals who love ritual and law but have no love for God. He doesn’t care about traditions, even those intended to create an appearance of holiness. Those are performance, not worship. God wants hearts crushed under the weight of separation that reach out for Him in need and longing. He wants souls eager to see Him, so eager they never stop looking, so eager they see His work at every turn. He wants minds humbled by failure that beg for mercy. He wants people so filled with gratitude for salvation that they exude joy in every way that He created possible. He wants true worship that allows His light to shine in them like in Moses’ face on Mt. Sinai.
This week’s response is provided by my kids. Following are two different stories using the prompt. Aside from a small amount of editing, these stories come straight from them and are written in their own voices. I hope you enjoy them.
Thor’s Hammer, by Isaiah
All this happened, more or less. I’ll fill you in on the whole story. I was sitting on the couch, veging out in front of the TV. All of a sudden I heard a CRASH. It was coming from the kitchen. Like any kid would do, I went to investigate. Now I don’t know what I was expecting but certainly not the hammer sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. I cautiously advanced and slowly picked it up. It began to glow. Suddenly a bolt of lightning shot out of the hammer at the microwave. The microwave might have exploded. All I could say was “Uh oh!” When my mom saw the cracked tiles where the hammer hit and the exploded microwave, she was going to freak. Just then a dog appeared, shadow except for brilliantly white teeth. Suddenly more lightning shot out of the hammer, and the dog disappeared. Then it hit me: this was Thors’ hammer. And if it was, then I was his son.
Wild Thing, by Sarah
All this happened, more or less. School. I hate school. In a classroom with twenty other kids. Two are my friends. Five are my siblings. Thirteen kids that I don’t know. And Mama’s teaching. Mama’s great at teaching. I’m just tired. I hardly slept last night. Then, all of a sudden, I’m not in a classroom learning about World War II. I’m out on the prairie with a bunch of wild horses. I’m not even scared. I just run up and jump on one’s back. It’s immediately tamed. I’m riding out here on the prairie with my new horse. It’s wonderful! Then I’m back in the classroom again. Mama’s still talking about World War II. Class is almost over. Aw man!
A little boy was walking in the woods one day. He tripped over a stump and fell on his face with a thump. He started to get up and realized he had fallen at the edge of a pond. A giant bullfrog stared him right in the eyes.
The little boy reached to pet it, but the frog took a leap and landed right on his face. The little boy was so startled that he jumped backwards, tripped over his own feet, and landed on his back. His head hit the stump with a thump. The bullfrog croaked and blinked while the little boy rubbed his sore head.
Finally he sat up and peeled the frog off his face. Just then a baby bird fell out of the nest right on the top of his head with a thump. He threw the bullfrog back into the pond, carefully cradled the baby bird in his hands, and looked around for a nest.
On a branch just too high to reach, the mama bird scolded him, chittering angrily. The little boy climbed up, but just as he returned the baby to its home, the mama bird fluttered into his face, the branch he stood on cracked, and he fell to the ground with a thump.
Rubbing his sore rump and shaking his sore head, the little boy stepped carefully over the stump and went home. The bullfrog jumped out of the pond and landed on the stump. Thump.
(Author’s note: This story is a collaboration between my eight year old son and me. I gave him the word prompt “thump” and he told me this story. All I did was clean it up and embellish it a little. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.)
The dried up, decomposing vines brushed her skin, tendrils of the darkness that protected what was left of her soul and crushed the breath from her lungs all at once. The candles in front of her flickered, pitiful against even the promise of wind in a trembling leaf at the edge of vision. Only three. How had three broken candles been all she had to offer for a shattered life?
Hot wax rearranged itself drop by drop into the shape of glass cups, insulation to prevent fire. As if she wasn’t already burning, endlessly unconsumed but raw. As if it had been her skin stolen from her instead of… instead. How many days since she had been able to breathe? A week? Two?
Orange globes peeking from a sea of green. Teeming life. Life on the edge of death; the smell of rot was more appropriate. Death for death. Orange flickered with the flame, mocking, demanding. Only three candles.
People did light candles for death, didn’t they? The trembling leaf released its hold, a moth fluttering to burn, disintegrated, forgotten. No. Never that. How can a chasm be forgotten? There should be stars. If there weren’t enough candles there should at least be stars. Where were the stars? Grieving. Maybe they would die, too; that would be fitting. Stars dying for loss of her Star.
Goosebumps rose under her fingers. Vines whispered. Flames guttered and fell. Only three broken candles.
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_Chosen_, a story of magic, dragons, and prophecy, is one of those. Seline finds herself face to face with the myths and legends that made her childhood bearable, and embarks on a mission to save two worlds from a powerful evil. A nobody all her life, she must also come to terms with her true identity and learn to use for good the power hidden deep within her.
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“Thalia!” Her little brother’s high pitched shriek penetrated the thick timber walls even with the doors almost entirely closed. “Thalia, Mama says thirdmeal will be ready in three clicks.”
Eben threw the door wide and stood panting in the sudden light. “Eben, please!” Thalia shaded her eyes with one hand and fanned herself with her thick brush broom. “It’s Three Suns Eve!”
The boy carefully pulled the door closed and perched on the ladder. “When will we go below?”
“At Sister Dawn, Eben. You know that.” She returned to her sweeping; any stray debris from the windowing would destroy the hydraulics and trap them on the surface under the suns. “We honor the coming of the Sisters’ fire with an offering of song and crystal. The spirits of the Sisters fill the crystals, and in their rainbow light we raise the shields and descend.”
“And then we party!” Eben jumped off the ladder right into the middle of her pile, scattering chaff. He ducked his head with a sheepish grin at Thalia’s glare.
“Oh, nevermind,” she groaned. “I’m almost done anyway. Tell Mama I may be a little late for thirdmeal; I want to oil and dress before eating. It wouldn’t do to be unprepared for my first Sister Dawn joining.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re just like Dada. Who cares about robes and ceremonies?”
She laughed and smacked his britches with her broom. “Scat! You’ll feast soon enough. Let me finish or there won’t be ceremony or party.”
Anyone who participates in the writing community for very long will certainly run into the great debate. Should authors outline before writing or not? I suspect the heat of the discussion stems from academic writing instruction, in which outlines are necessary for structuring arguments and organizing large volumes of factual information.
Certainly outlining can be a helpful tool in fictional worldbuilding as well. For a complex plot involving multiple characters and storylines, keeping track of where everyone and every event fits into the pattern is quite a challenge. Many authors do feel the need to outline their entire plot before getting started just to keep themselves on track.
Many others have a different process altogether. Their stories grow from a visual image, a title idea, a character sketch, or some other small detail, without any clear story to plan. For them, the story develops one person, event, or detail at a time. Each stems from the last like a tree putting out new shoots in spring. Such authors must start writing the beginning before the next step develops. Waiting to start until outlining the plot from beginning to end would mean their stories were never written at all.
As a “pantser” myself (by the seat of my pants – pantser), I acknowledge that this does present certain disadvantages. Where a plotter may have to cut thousands of extra words in the first edit, a pantser often adds thousands to fill in holes caused by meandering creation. Extra edits are often required (at least in my experience) to separate character voices and hone individual character arcs that might have been clearer if planned from the beginning. Writing time itself may be longer; where someone who can outline an entire story may be able to quickly work through their plan, a pantser may have difficulty with continuous writing due to constantly having to figure out the next step of the story.
I have tried outlining stories from the beginning, hoping to discover that clear path to the end, or even the end at all. That effort cost me months of productivity. I simply could not make things happen. So, a pantser I will continue to be, drifting along a piece of a scene at a time, taking the time required for all of the bits of story in my head to put themselves together.
To outline or not to outline, “that is the question.” How do you answer?
The Word Worker 
