Born Again and Again

by Pamela J. Tinnin

I have a dear friend named Dora Schmidt. She lives in Oregon where we used to live. She came up and introduced herself at the first potluck we went to in the church that would eventually become our own. She tapped me on the shoulder and said, "When I heard you laugh, I recognized a kindred soul."

Dora's about 15 years older than me, but she was right: we had a lot in common. We had both recently returned to church after many years away; we both love to laugh, we both love to tell and to hear stories; we both struggle with our faith. In the three years before I left for seminary, Dora dropped out of church at least four or five times. She would get mad at something the pastor said in a sermon, she'd get her feelings hurt by someone at Women's Fellowship, she'd get irritated at all the new music the choir director kept insisting we sing.

One afternoon, during one of her "I'm never going back to that church" periods, I stopped by her place. We sat outside on her deck in the warm September sun drinking hazelnut-flavored coffee and tasting the latest batch of Dora's famous chocolate-dipped dried apricots. We talked about a lot of things: her kids and mine, the theater that was supposed to come to town, her new part-time job at an employment agency. As always, her dogs lay nearby, her "babies"she called them, a Great Dane named Roscoe and Kelly, an elegant Irish Setter.

We were quiet for a while and I was thinking of leaving when Dora said, "Pam, you know it's not really the church that bugs me: it's not the preaching, not even the music, though Jan drives me crazy; it's, well, it's God. See, I keep waiting fo1292mething, some sign, that God really exists; that Jesus really came; that he was really the savior. Now, don't just tell me all that stuff about "leap of faith" and things unseen; I've always been a pragmatist. I've got to have proof; this born again stuff, I'm sorry, it's just not for me."

I sat there unable to think of what to say, feeling stupid as I fumbled for words to justify my own newly-found faith that at times still felt shaky. What I came up with sounded pretty lame, even to me. "Well, Dora, I just keep trying and keep coming. I figure those times I doubt will be less and less. Who knows? Maybe some day, I won't doubt at all."

Again I made motions to leave when Dora turned her head away and looked out towards the vineyards in the field next to her yard and said, her voice so soft I had to lean in close to hear her, "More than God, it's me. Truth is, I'm just not holy enough; not good enough. I guess I'll never be good enough."

I left that day feeling like I had failed, like I had let Dora down, like I had let God down. Why couldn't I at least have told her that one of my favorite scriptures was, "Lord, I believe; help me with my unbelief? Didn't Jesus say in the Garden, "Let this cup pass me by"? Didn't he say on the cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" More than anything, why didn't I tell her that none of us is "good enough," but God loves us anyway; but truth is, in my heart, I wasn't sure I believed that either.

I remember how Dora rolled her eyes at my words, how disappointed her voice sounded as she said good-bye. Maybe she had thought I'd have some answers, that I'd be able to give her that sign she'd been looking for. Well, she was sure wrong on that one.

When I read the scriptures for this week, I remembered that afternoon at Dora's house. Both the Hebrew Scriptures and the Gospel stories are about faith and belief and taking risks, and about doubt, too. Abram and Nicodemus, both leading comfortable lives. Neither has any reason at all to take chances, to risk what they have.

What God offers Abram is a promise and a purpose: promises that at the great age of 75, Abram will at last have an heir and through that son, will found a nation.Yet in order to claim either, Abram has to rely totally on God. Most of us want promise and purpose in our lives, but what are we willing to risk? Are we willing to let go of our fears, put it all out there, let God take control? Are we?

Then there's Nicodemus. He comes to Jesus by night, in secret. He seeks out this strange, itinerant preacher, the one who, rumor has it, is at the very least a man of special powers, and perhaps much more. But Nicodemus seems filled with doubt. How can a man be born when he is old? How can someone be born of the Spirit?"

What's fascinating about Nicodemus is that he's an "insider," a leader of the Jews. Perhaps that is why he's reluctant to take a chance, to put himself at risk by believing what this Jesus says. Hey, who can blame him? Change is risky, and there are no guarantees.

Now we know what happens with Abram; what does it say? "And Abram went, as God had told him." Wow, now that's faith. We also know that all that God had promised came true. With Nicodemus, we're left hanging; it doesn't say whether he believed and changed his life, or went off still scratching his head, still asking questions. Faith and belief and doubt: as much a part of people's lives then as they are now.

Dora and I are still friends, though these days it's mostly via e-mail and those once-a-year Christmas cards. She always includes these newsy letters, you know the Xeroxed kind that list your kids' accomplishments, report your pets' latest tricks, and tell about your cruise to Alaska. But two Christmases ago, her letter was very different. She began it by saying, "God has changed my life".

When I saw her that January when I was in California, she told me what had happened. Like all of us, Dora has had her share or problems: that spring her younger daughter had been admitted to a drug rehab unit, while the other one, "at 40, certainly no kid" as Dora put it, had called her mom asking for money after the latest in a long string of boyfriends had dumped her.

Well, the very night she got the call from her older daughter, Dora had a conversion experience; not that she saw a great light or heard a voice thundering from the heavens. No, it wasn't like that at all. She was so tired and worried, she couldn't even sleep, so she prayed what we pastors call "a prayer of relinquishment", even though, she told me, "I wasn't even sure if God was there." There alone in her bed, with tears she couldn't stop, Dora cried out to God. She said she was tired of struggling all the time, she was tired of pretending that everything was all right, she was tired of trying to keep it all under control. She prayed that all she really wanted was to be a good person, to live with truth and integrity and love, to live as God wanted her to live.

"Of course, the next morning," she said laughing, "I knew my desperate little prayer would probably be forgotten like all the other 'new starts' I'm always making."

But it wasn't that prayer that came out of her exhaustion and despair stuck with Dora. As the days passed, Dora told me, each time she got worried, each time she got angry, each time she started to panic, she remembered what she had prayed for that night. "I know it sounds weird, " she said, "but this calmness would come over me and it was easier to figure out what to do. It was, well, almost like I was a different person."

"Like being born again?" I asked, smiling.

She laughed a little and blushed, "Yeah; I guess like being born again."

Dora's conversion just keeps happening. In this year's Christmas letter, she shared her latest news. "In this holy season I have something to share with the people I care about, and the telling of it is one of the hardest things I've ever done. When I was 15, everyone thought my parents sent me to some fancy boarding school for my sophomore year. No one has ever known that it was a home for unwed mothers. For fifty-six years I have born the guilt of that secret, knowing that I gave my own child away. Recently I contacted the agency in Michigan that handled the adoption and notified them that I would welcome contact with my child. My greatest joy this Christmas is that I have found my son. The miracle is, he was looking for me, too; he wants me and his sisters to be part of his life."

"I just want to be a good person," she prayed. "I want to live with truth and integrity and love. I want to live as God wants me to live." And somehow, in those dark hours of a long, sleepless night, a woman who was at the end of her rope opened her heart to the possibility of God's grace. And you know, I want to tell you this morning, no matter what we've done, no matter how many times we've failed, no matter what kinds of secrets we've kept hidden away, that's all it really takes.

We must be born of the Spirit; we must risk letting the grace of God seize hold of our lives and do with them what God wills; and when that happens, we will find ourselves forgiven; we will find that all the wounded places in our lives will start to heal; we will find ourselves becoming new creatures. Then we will begin to see the kingdom of God. AMEN.

(Comments to Pam at PamT481@AOL.COM )