Many views, one event

The other day as I was leaving my eye doctor's office, she asked my advice about her 8 year-old neice who "goes to guns" whenever she has to brush her teeth in the evening before going to bed. My doctor had told her sister, the mother of the girl, that she would ask me and I would tell her exactly what to do about it.

She stood then, smiling and expectantly waiting to be told why this was happening and the precise thing to do about it. My mind was racing, even though I was smiling back at her. Could it be that this child associates brushing her teeth with having to go to bed? Has she hurt her gums? Is her toothbrush too stiff? Does she hate the toothpaste? Does she have an aversion to toothpaste? Does it burn her mouth? Does this child have no choices, no way to assert her preferences regarding her toothpaste, toothbrush, time of evening to brush her teeth? Is it possible that the only time she gets attention is when she digs in her heels and engages her mother in battle? Does she feel that unless she does everything "nicely" that her mother's love won't be there for her and she is testing this? Is it a power struggle between mother and child? Is it an effort to be so bad as to engage daddy, too? There were so many issues, so many questions that all I could do was try to explain the difference between medical and therapy culture--and why I couldn't tell her a definitive cause (even though I made some general suggestions about the questions I'd want to have answers to before I could know how to approach this situation).

In medicine, physicians are rewarded for having clear ideas--typically one idea, the idea--about what is happening and what the treatment is that needs to be provided. We expect physicians to know what's what and how to treat the problems. If they start prevaricating and doing the, "Well, it could be this, but maybe it is that, and there is an atypical manifestation of..."--then we beat it out the door and don't go back.

But with therapy, it's a bit different. I was told once by a major professor in my therapy training program that the sign of a good therapist is not in hearing an issue and having the hypothesis for a given behavior. It's in hearing an issue and being able to generate 100 possible explanations for what has happened.

The longer I have lived, the more I believe this. Not only in my professional life, but in my personal relationships as well. We are not the other person and can only guess about how their past, present, anxieties, ideals, and a host of other variables, play into their behavior and words. Regardless of how well we know someone--we still are on the outside making our hypotheses about why they do what they do.

God alone is the One who judges the motives of the heart. We have such monochromatic notions in comparison to what God can see. We feel that we have accomplished something grand if we can look at someone or something and immediately state the cause and effect along with the motives involved. So for my 100 explanations, He has 1,000,000,000 at least. Hard to fathom.
It seems that the grace we receive from a God who understands the makings of us and our behavior is the least we can extend to others who we are unsure of.

Judge not that ye be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you shall also be judged. And with what measure you mete, that shall you receive.

Academic fashion statements

Today, for the third day in a row, I have had 8-hour meetings with colleagues. These meetings have been strategic planning for the next five years, general faculty meetings, special orientation meetings for our students, and research team meetings. I'm left wondering when I will stop noticing the eccentricities of academics. I have written before about some of the idiosyncratic behaviors of professors, but these last few days have called forth even more interesting (to me) observations.

Take Shirley, for example. When she dresses for work, she decks out in the latest styles. Her hair is perfectly coifed and her clothes are straight from Nordstrom or the Orvis catalog. She carries herself well and gives direct eye contact and smiles to those whom she meets. But then you look down at her brown oxford shoes--sensible shoes--"because I have to walk miles on these dawgs every day in class!"--and the picture is complete.

Yesterday, Don came to the strategic planning meeting looking as though he'd slept wrong on his hair: a section of it stood straight up just under the crown of his head. I'd never noticed that he had a cowlick before, but there it was, saluting me jauntily from the back of his scalp. This man is one of the dearest, most gifted and generous professors a student will ever be fortunate to have. He just doesn't always care about how his hair looks.

Myra, scurries around, holding her shoulders steady whilst her feet shuffle in hurried, mincing steps, everywhere she goes. She always looks nice and is the epitome of the servant leader. I've noticed that she seems to be concerned that her bosom not be a focal point in her dress because no matter what she has on, it has a button across her bustline that is always done up and pulled tight. She is a very attractive woman, very well spoken and has two doctoral degrees from extremely reputable universities. Yet sometimes the button on the front of her outfit is in the wrong buttonhole. There Myra goes, scurrying about with her clothes pulled in a cockeyed kind of alignment, the edges of her shirt two different lengths. "Myra, your buttons are catywhompus," I tell her. "Oh..." and as she rushes out the door (Myra is ALWAYS in a rush), she buttons it another equally unaligned way. "Thanks!" she yells over her shoulder.

We have two male professors who look like they have walked right off the fashion runway. Their shirts are always starched and pressed and they look terrific from head to foot. They have different cultural underpinnings than I have, and my observations are that their cultures dictate precision and pristine quality of dress. They embody these characteristics very well.

From being around Connie, I can't predict whether she will be wearing makeup or not. This is probably not a huge deal, as I fervently wish I didn't have to bother with it (but then I'd look like I'm 20 years old!) but I'm always startled to have her turn her head and see her without makeup. She looks so different without it, and being without it creates such an identity more of an Earth Mother presence, rather than one of the most quoted and published women in the field--who just happens to wear makeup on some days and not on others.

But all these academics aren't nearly as bad as my doctor--my family doctor. When I made my first appointment there I was worried that I'd get someone who didn't know what she was doing, or did sloppy workups, or would overlook something. One glance at her, however, told me I was in luck. She slunk apologetically into the exam room where I was reading a magazine. She was wearing what used to be a white lab coat with big ink blotches in her breast pocket where her pens had leaked--quarter-sized black circles--about five of them, marring her coat. She apparently didn't have much of an aim either, putting her pens into her side pockets, because there were all these ink lines where she hadn't capped the pens and simply had run them down the sides of her coat into the pocket. Lines everywhere. As if that weren't enough, her hair was stringy, died black, and she was wearing an odd combination of clothes under her lab coat. Her spindly legs covered in Nude hose ended in shoes that looked a bit awkward, her feet pointing at two o'clock and ten o'clock.

My doctor has been a genius, finally figuring out what is wrong with my health. She has ordered the tests I need, gotten me in to the specialists that are required, and has ordered blood work that was required to make a definitive diagnosis. And when she sees me, she shyly smiles and looks down at my file.

I really like her.

So I don't know what the point is of this post. Only that I continue to be amazed that some of the most intelligent people can look the way they do. I enjoy the humanness of it. Maybe it gives me hope that given the way I dress, I fit in with these incredibly gifted, delightful, intelligent people.

Shocked!

Today on the way home from work I decided that the mud splatters on the windshield just had to go. Besides, the Empty Light came on, who knew when. It was time to stop.

The service station up near my clinic satelite wasn't in a very nice part of town. But no matter. It was a brand new Shell station. They even had television screens broadcasting news and other interesting factoids, right over the pumps outdoors! Very cool. I pumped my gas and paid for a carwash. Excellent. I'd get the Deluxe--wash, wax, anti-drop whatever-it-was for the windshield, and then a good drying. It cost me only $7.95--more than I'd pay to do the job at home, but much less than a hand wash job at $16.95. Excellent value.

I drove around the back side of the brand new building, holding the gas receipt in one hand, trying to find the carwash code on it. Oh--there it was, right up at the top. There was a nifty little kiosk with a lovely man's voice speaking out of it when I pulled up. "Enter your code followed by the pound sign. Then pull up to the entrance of the carwash and wait for the light to indicate that you may proceed." I entered my code: 299536, and rolled up the window as I crept up to the entrance. A car was inside, getting a good washing. Suds were flying and all sorts of whirling cloth pieces were flailing against the top and sides of a little red car. They appeared to be getting the Deluxe Wash, too. I took the opportunity to unscrew the antenna and carefully put it on the front seat. Dvorak's "Going home, going home, I'm a-going home..." was playing on the radio. The sign said to turn off your radio, so I said goodbye to Dvorak. The car was sure taking a long time inside. It stayed under the blower almost the entire minute--just sat there. Then took off.

I drove into the place. A mirror-level flashing neon sign advised me to back out immediately. Hmmmm. Wonder why. I backed out, around the little curved entrance, and sat there. The Proceed light was turned off and even the red Stop light was now off. Nothing lit up. What's going on? Maybe I hadn't entered the code right. I backed up even more and entered it again. I'm glad no one is behind me. The man in the machine said, "This is an invalid code. Please go inside for help." Go inside, nothing. I pressed the Help button. The man's voice rang out again, "Please go inside for help."Doggone it!

I wondered if the man in the car ahead of me had been simply sitting there waiting for some unsuspecting person to enter their code so he could get a free carwash. Who would do such a thing? Especially in broad daylight?

I backed up through the entire curving entry lane--angry, fuming out loud. Could it be that this jerk ahead of me had ripped me off and did me out of $7.95? Or was it broken? What kind of a place was this and what kind of brazen criminality went on around here?

I parked the car right in front of the clerk's window and jumped out, slamming the door hard. My face must have looked pretty mean, because the little girl behind the counter shrank back from me.
"That carwash doesn't work!" I said angrily.
She looked at my receipt and told me to wait right there for a minute. Turning to get the manager, she said, "Are you sure you didn't already wash your car?"
"Now why would I want to wash my car twice! Look outside the window--that's my car, right there. Does that look clean to you, or even wet?"
I didn't give her a chance to respond. "No. It's dry and filthy."
She looked disinterestedly toward the window, her eyes never focusing on my car.
"I'll be right back," she said quietly.

I was so mad. Would I have to face off now with the manager over a stupid carwash? How could a brand new station have a faulty carwash?
Here came the manager--someone who looked very different than I do. He probably has a thick accent and is a tightwad.
"Miss," he said. "I think someone else got your carwash. It's not broken, you know." He had a very sweet face and kind voice.
My shoulders drooped. I couldn't get angry at such a nice man. I had been taken--it was that simple.
"Oh." That was all I could muster.
He smiled very kindly and said, "But I will give you a carwash. Do not worry. I will give it to you. Go outside and around the back again and I will do it for you."
I couldn't thank him enough. He was smiling and I felt tremendous relief as I drove around the back of the station into the carwash. There he stood, manually entering a code into a little remote control he had. He turned, smiled and waved at me, and went inside. I drove into the tire guides and sat back while the whirling cloth pillars whizzed over the car.

I had taken the meanness of the person who stole my carwash straight in to the clerk, depositing all my hostility onto her. But in one moment, the kindness of the manager made everything dissipate.

I had been surprised that I had felt such anger over such a small thing. Sure, it bugs me that people try to get away with anything they can. But I had been in a hurry, racing across town to my next appointment. So many demands, so little time, such great responsibility. I'm in such a bind time-wise right now, up at 5:00 a.m. to work on my online class and bringing home work to get done until 10:30 at night. I have felt like a pressure cooker.

Then this man's small kind gesture. It really turned the tide for me. Someone else in the world was responsible, kind, gracious, and all the things that we would hope to find in a good person. He was as good as the crooked car owner in the carwash was.
A Bible verse sounded in my mind: "A soft answer turneth away wrath."
So does a kind deed.

Words

Here are some words that I love, but that I can't bring myself to use in conversation with anyone:

Perspicacity
Nefarious
Erudition
Indubitably
Excogitated
Opprobium
brobdingnagian

and this one: the longest one in the English language
pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
Try dropping that one nonchalantly into a conversatrion over lunch. If it doesn't choke you, try using another word like, quadridimensionality or Honorificabilitudinitatibus.

My all-time favorite is this: Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrn-drobwllllandyssiliogogogoch. The name of a Welsh village in Anglesea. It means, “The church of St. Mary in a hollow of white hazel, near to the rapid whirlpool, and to St. Tisilio church, near to a red cave.”

Words have always been fun for me. Maybe you can create a list of your own, too.
I tag Beth and Ginger.
Let's hear your fun words.

Private Life

Found here

Watching Frasier tonight, I once again heard a term that fairly rolls off one's tongue: In flagrante delicto. (Pronounced, "in flah-grahn-tay day-lick-toe"). It means, caught in the act. It tends to have a sexual connotation: caught redhanded in questionable moral behavior. I love the scandalous sound to this term. And of course, no one can say it with the level of righteous indignation that Frasier Crane can!

While reflecting on the meaning of this term and the various images it conjures up, I thought about a number of scenarios that our private selves would be loathe to have witnessed: wandering around the house Sunday morning in that raggedly sleep shirt that should have been thrown out a couple years before. Or waiting until company leaves the table to go to the livingroom so you can even off the angle of the cake and have another couple mouthfuls without being scrutinized. Maybe it's the harried scrubbing of the toilet or the indignity of cleaning the litter box. Whatever uncomely activity, it would not be nice to have an audience.

We can easily name these kinds of things that we would not like to have observed. But it strikes me that we might do well to consider the relational things that are observed and the messages we send our kids through our actions toward those we say we love.

I recall a family drive in the mountains one Saturday afternoon in the fall. We found a bunch of berry bushes at the side of the road and stopped to fill our pockets and mouths with the lucious fruit. At some point on the drive home, Sam and I had a disagreement about something. I think he was hungry and felt cranky and I was doing my "I'm stressed out because I'm a stepmother" thing. It was not a happy combination and we sniped at one another. It wasn't anything serious, just an impatient comment from Sam and my hasty rejoinder that I wasn't going to have that conversation. The girls got very quiet and we all rode in silence most of the ride home. I was steamed and so was Sam.

By the time we got to the house, both of us were ready and eager to talk things out. The girls fled upstairs to their rooms and we stood downstairs in the kitchen.

"I don't like when you talk to me in that tone of voice."
"I'm sorry. What you said irritated me."

"It doesn't send a good message to say that in front of the girls."

"I wanted them to see that it's okay to disagree, and to stand up for yourself."

(Long pause). "I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

We can never get through apologies about petty things without a good laugh. Soon we were wrapped tightly in each other's arms kissing, giggling, and being goofy in general. As Sam whirled me around, I noticed a shadow on the wall of the staircase. In flagrante delicto.

A few moments later, Sam went in the other room and I started making dinner.

Brianna was almost immediately at my elbow.

"Do you and dad ever fight, Barbara?"

"Oh sure--well, we don't exactly fight, but we do disagree from time to time."

"What do you do when that happens?"

"Uh...well, you just saw us."

"Yes, but what happens when I'm not around?"

"Pretty much the same thing."

"Is that all? You don't scream at Dad?"

"Do you think he'll hear me better if I do that? --like people who shout at someone who doesn't speak English, so they'll understand it better?"

Ha-ha-ha-ha....we cracked up together. Brianna helped me set the table and went happily up to call the others to the table.

Those who are parents are used to having spectators in the house. But being fairly new to the parenthood game, I was flabbergasted at how much Brianna had seen and heard--not to mention how interested she was in our exchange.She had caught us redhanded in an argument and I was so grateful that she hadn't heard anything that would be hurtful to her or embarassing to us.

Life isn't always like that, however. We haul off and say the most impatient things to those we love--grousing about the little stuff of life as though it had eternal consequences. Some eyes see what we say and how we treat one another. These images are lessons for their lives--we just may be shocked at how our behavior informs their future relationships. These little parts of our private acts live on in the most unexpected ways in our children, students, friends.

This is more than just a call to be nice to one another. It is an invitation to pay attention to those things that others see that we don't pay any attention to: the steady stream of criticism, the lack of warm compliments, failure to express tenderness when it is needed, snide comments or rhetorical questions meant to belittle, emotional withholding. All of these seemingly private in flagrante delicto things leave marks behind in impressionable hearts.

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart

be acceptable in Thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my Redeemer.

Nostalgia

This is the side lawn of the house in which I grew up, and in which my parents lived for 40 years. The grass covers what used to be the garden. It was at least half an acre and the four of us kids spent what felt like endless hours weeding tomatoes, peas, and squash. We often had several chicks following us up and down the rows, eager for us to point out grubs and beetles for them to gobble up. The occasional rotten tomato would be hurled at a sibling, only to start a rotten vegetable war that would end in a real stink. Our dog, Ceasar, would lie off in the shade of an old pear tree that looked like it was dying when we moved in, but that gave off bushels of pears every year. It was an idylic time and place.



It was also a place where the seasons were vivid and easily discerned, unlike my current climate. The maple tree across the road by the garage and barn--the one I planted the week I went off to college--always had the most gorgeous red and gold leaves every fall. In the spring I would walk down the road and turn right, following the hedge row all the way around the bend to the spot I could enter the forest by a hickory tree. There at the base of it was a cluster of white flowers called Dutchmen's Breeches. There were pink trillium, adders tongue, violets, and marsh mallows. But only at certain weeks of the year. I was delighted to have figured out the timing of nature so I could go looking for these yearly friends. But the fall season was best of all. I would put on my coat after dark and slip outside to the distant corner of the property where my pet boulder was inset in the side of a slope. Sitting on that rock, I used to talk to God and look up at the stars for what seemed like hours. But of course, the chilly air would go through my coat and I'd be driven back inside.
All I have here to announce fall is a slight chill in the air every morning this week. Not that I'm ungrateful for it--it's been horribly hot this summer--but I miss my leaves and the crispness and mystery of very cold evening autumn air.


More than the cold air, I miss hearing the sounds of migrating Canada Geese. Because our home was up on a hill surrounded by corn fields and right under the migration path, we could hear geese bedding down in the fields every night from all directions. Their soft night sounds in the distance was a lullabye to me wafting through my open bedroom window at night for many years. Seeing the black geese fly through the sky, picking out the Snow Geese and even the occasional swans, was something we used to do when we weren't counting to see how many were flying in one V-shape gaggle. On some evenings the sky was almost black with them--clouds and clouds of them settling in the field adjacent to the house. We could hear them honking excitedly as though they were comparing flight conditions over the last 12 hours.



When the air is cool in the morning and evening, I think back to that wonderful place. It is evenings like this that I miss New York more than I can say. It was another time and another place--one that I loved so many things about. I remember all my adolescent prayers to get me out of there and think of all that life has taught me since sitting there on my boulder. The words that I used to quote, albeit with teenage drama, sitting there in the darkness, face upturned to the sky, ring true and have meaning now as never before:

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

(From To a Waterfowl by William Cullen Bryant)

Urban Legend

Found here

This week I heard a very interesting story from a woman who used to live in the same Midwest area that I did for a short time:

There was a brewery for many years in this town and it was known for a special beer called "Champagne Velvet." By all reports, it had a very smooth and satisfying flavor. People traveled for miles just to have some.
Then came Prohibition. Overnight, the brewery was shut down and the windows and doors sealed off. No one went in or out of the place for as long as Prohibition was in effect. People had saved Champagne Velvet for their own use at home, but there was none for sale anywhere for many years.

When Prohibition was lifted, the brewery owners (who by now had started a restaurant across the street) decided to get into the old place and start manufacturing Champagne Velvet again. They started by emptying out and using up the champagne that was still in the vats in the warehouse. There were several and they were very large tank-like receptacles that could hold about the same amount as half a cement truck can carry. They were thrilled to find this cache and they began serving it up almost immediately.

As they got to the bottom of the vat, some months after finding the vat, they discovered a human skeleton (don't gag...) They didn't know who it was, until someone suggested that it was a former brewery employee that had gone missing several months before the brewery had been sealed up. So the Champagne Velvet had been specially enriched.

Horrid story, isn't it? Do you think it could be true? Or just another urban legend?

Accountability

It is very hard to make people do things. Especially when they don't want to. It is hard to make people happy, or sober, or healthy, when their behavior guarantees other outcomes. Some of us put in moments, hours, nights, to try to figure out what we can do to prompt someone else to change. No matter how slick or intelligent, or even how informed one might be, if the object of our concern doesn't put forth effort to work in their own behalf, change will not happen. The more people refuse to change, the more manipulative and demoralized the other becomes.

This is called rescuing behavior. Some people invite others to rescue them. I know of a couple women who go from congregation to congregation, friend to friend, telling their story of woe, hoping that someone will do for them what they are not willing to do for themselves. Other people will merely come close to you and expect that you will act in their behalf.

Sadly though, some people will kill themselves no matter what you try to do for them. Some people will lose relationships and wreck their lives waiting for someone else to make their lives swell. When these unfortunate events do happen, the rescuer feels like a failure and slinks off feeling resentful for all that they suggested that was not taken seriously or done.

We love people close to us. Most of us will bend to the limit to try to help these loved ones. It is hard to see others suffer. Almost impossible though sometimes, to get other people to do what they need to do for themselves unless we get out of their way and leave them alone. It's hard to find that middle road between rescuing and ignoring the suffering. What is reasonable to offer them? What limits need to be set so we remain sane, balanced, and without guilt for their choices? How do we know if these people are even capable of making choices in their best interest? Is it wrong not to step in and try to help if they are so distraught that they are emotionally immobile? Or is that still meddling and rescuing?

There are pains in this life that I long to look back on--they are not easy in the slightest to weather at present. It takes wisdom that I don't have, and grace that I desperately need, to know how to manage the difficulties that need to be continually faced. I solicit your prayers for the loved ones who are blinded by their own hurt that they struggle acting in their own best interests. And I know God will be close, loving us all more than we can comprehend.

Where to?

Mother's birthday was last week, and I took her out for a nice lunch to celebrate. When I picked her up at her senior apartment, I handed off a pretty potted plant, which she immediately took back up to her apartment before we left. A kind looking older gentleman held the door open for her to go inside.
I sat in the car with the engine on so I didn't have to leave the air conditioned car. The gentleman came over and stooped down to look into the passenger window of my car. I smiled and waved. I didn't know him but he seemed friendly enough.
Thinking he wanted to ask me something, I rolled down the window on his side just as he opened the door.
"Hi!" he called out.
"Well, hello!" I replied.
The man climbed into the car and sat down across from me, his feet firmly planted on either side of my large purse on the floor in front of him.
He reached for the seatbelt and started belting himself in. I had no idea who this man was.
"Where are we going?" I asked, hoping that would snap him out of whatever he was thinking.
"I feel like Marie Calender's today." He folded his hands in his lap and looked expectantly at me.
This was interesting. I cocked my head to one side and looked at him. He smiled back, waiting for me to drive off.
"Do I know you?" I asked. I hoped that this would gently let him know that I wasn't going anywhere with him.
"Well, you're Jean, aren't you?" he looked bewildered.
"No, I'm waiting here for my mother, who you just passed, going inside with a potted plant. We're going out this afternoon."
He regarded me for several seconds. "You're not Jean?"
"No. I'm Barbara." I hated for him to feel badly, but I was quite shocked.
"You could be a close cousin to Jean. She's one of the caretakers here. You look just like her!"
"Wow. I'd like to see who that is!"
He unfastened his seatbelt and hopped out of the car. "It was a case of mistaken identity" he said without humor.
"Don't give it another thought," I said, truly hoping he wouldn't feel badly. His vision must not have been too good. Or maybe I truly did look like Jean.
Mother came out the door moments later. I had been chortling to myself and the gentleman was sitting on the bench waiting for Jean.
"Where are we going for lunch?" Mother asked.
I smiled. "I feel like Marie Calender's today."
We had a great lunch there and a good laugh. Sometimes it can be so humbling to be human!

Research Class

I'm preparing to teach a doctoral level survey of therapy research course in three weeks. In the textbook are chapters about various types of investigation, following a chapter that calls for greater sophistication in family research. The next chapter is a guide for graduate students who wish to conduct research in our field. Qualitative, quantitative, mixed method, and postmodern approaches are covered. I'm salivating over this material but I'm sure my students will wish they could die rather than take this course.

Halfway through the second chapter, it occurred to me that the study of the Bible includes almost every element of my textbook. Learning about Jesus Christ through the Bible happens in all of these methods. Here's what I'm thinking:

Case studies. The Bible is full of these. Case studies are detailed, single stories that describe what works. We have case studies from beginning to end--many of which outline the grace of God, who meets us where we are. Other case studies tell about people whose lives went the wrong way but who tried to pull back before they died (Samson). People come alive in case studies. Each story illustrates a specific idea: that even an animal will speak if we disobey God; that God can do the unthinkable (Lot's wife turning into a pillar of salt); that God still works in the lives of people who have horrible belief systems (the Levite and his concubine).

Petit Histoire. This is the postmodern type of a case study. Postmodern researchers say that everyone has a story that is as important as all the statistics that describe what the majority of people do, feel, think, experience. The people who are not like the majority of others can teach us a great deal. We learn much from those short stories in the Bible that give us a glimpse of some facet of our forbearer's faith and life experience. So rather than say that because 70% of the Old Testament characters were male, we can read the petit histoire of Deborah the prophetess and learn something that is just as valuable as reading about all the kings and male prophets of the day.

Qualitative Methods. This type of research is conducted by interviewing individuals with particular experiences. Phenomenology is the study of what people experience. Through lengthy interviews, based on open-ended questions, we hear the stories of people who have all had similar experiences of some sort. For example, although we cannot interview Bible characters, by examining the written stories of women in the early church, we can get a pretty good idea of what it was like to be female in those days. This type of research is feminist narrative analysis--the study of written documents from a feminist perspective. We all do this in our Bible study. Ethnomethodology is a form of qualitative analysis that comes from facts gathered through observation. If you were to come to my church for several weeks at a time and stand in the lobby before services, you would soon understand the lingo in my Christian subculture. That's because you would listen for unusual usage of words and watch for distinctive behaviors. When we study the Bible, we observe how people ate, drank, speak together, etc. Most pastors spend considerable time in exegesis--understanding the context of the Bible subject(s) about which they are going to preach. This is a type of ethnomethodology. Then they make it clear to their congregants what the background is to what is said in the Bible. .

Grounded theory building is something we all have done after reading the Bible. Creating a theory is what we do when we describe the process of accepting Christ. Through a close reading of the scripture, we understand that recognition of our need, receiving the gift of repentence, accepting Christ's grace, asking for forgiveness, moving on to newness of life, and keeping on keeping on--this is a theory that is grounded in all that the Bible teaches about Salvation. By reading over all the material about how Jesus treated people, we could build a theory that He was gracious and benevolent to the common man, while we note that the only people Jesus really rebuked were those who thought they had already arrived, spiritually. By reviewing all the instances when Jesus did rebuke people, we find that it was the scribes, pharisees, and lawyers of his day who got the worst marks. We devise a theory then, about cause. From comparing scripture with scripture, we find that Jesus gave some commentary about this and we use this as the basis of our theory ("Those who are whole do not need a physician," etc.).

Quantitative measures. This is typically what researchers do, historically. We can, for example, review what the word hell, Gehenna, or Sheol means by looking up each verse listed in the concordance that references these words. Then we can say that the preponderance of the evidence (or whatever percentage of the time) indicates that when this word is used, it means a very miserable place. A meta-analysis would be something like reviewing the number of converts at each of the sermons in the Bible and coming up with a list of predictors for people to cry out, "What then shall we do to be saved?" Or what predicted persecution for the apostles after their public sermons.

Mixed methods. Program and outcome evaluation methods fall into this category. Paul did this in Romans 8 when he went on and on about the things that he wants to do he doesn't do, and what he doesn't want to do, he actually does. This was an evaluation of his own efforts at righteousness (evaluation piece) with commentary (qualitative data) about his feelings of repeated failure in the process.
I've heard sermons in which a case study is presented (the story of when God rained fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gommorah), and then a discussion about conditional dire prophecies that were not fulfilled because the people repented as in the case of Jonah and Ninevah. One particular case is examined in the light of the statistical predictors of prophecies coming true. This reflects a mixed method.

Perhaps the most important of all the chapters in my textbook is about the ethical reporting of research findings. We can get research to say anything we'd like if we're clever enough. And people the world over have gotten the Bible to support every type of bizarre belief and habit. It's because an isolated verse, taken out of context, is read as predicting some specific meaning. If I were to read about God telling Noah to build a boat and preach to the antidiluvians about a coming flood, or about the prophet Ezra being told to lie on his left side for 32 days and prophecy naked, but I fail to take note that this is by far the exception rather than the rule, I could be one of those people who believe that unless I'm doing something that I don't like, I'm not in God's will. Or that if something feels good it must be bad. Or, if I read the book of James and all the "do-ism" without reading about salvation through faith alone in Romans, I may have a legalistic faith. You see, it is all about being a good, ethical researcher and reporting on what is there, not on merely what seems a good idea to me, or what is in one verse that I opened the Bible and put my finger on. It also means not approaching research with an idea and then searching out all the data that will support your pet idea. It means allowing the data to speak for itself--and reporting only what is there. For someone to make a blanket statement that all music needs to be classical vocal music to be appropriate in God's sight, is going beyond what the data states.

Another point here is that a good researcher situates himself or herself in the work. That means that each person who reports the story can color it according to their personality and experiences. So when I write up my studies, I must alert the reader what my biases are: I am a woman, a feminist, a Christian, a therapist, who may be limited in the area of the study, or have clinical experience with the topic in question, or who has experienced the same issues as my interviewees and therefore, I have a unique take on what the research findings are. If the results of my study are that second-hand smoking doesn't really hurt people, the reader needs to know that I am a non-smoking physician working for the American Cancer Society, or that I work for a tobacco company. Or even that I am sponsored by a pharmaceutical company that produces nicotine patches. The findings will look different and have different credibility according to who is telling the facts.

As a Christian, it makes a difference whether I am imminently aware of my sins and need of God--or whether I'm a theologian who merely enjoys the academic, theoretical study of the Scriptures, or if I am a skeptic, or whether I've been standing in God's grace for a long time or a short time. The hearer needs to know this in order to understand the nuances and emphases placed on various concepts that are discussed. It is all part of ethical reporting, but few do it.


So there are times when I find myself in church, lost in thought about what I am hearing. The Bible is poetry, education, investigation, and so much more. There is a great deal to ponder.

Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path. Psalm 119:105