MY TALKING CHAIR

If you're anything like me, your spiritual journey is a mix of profound moments and everyday reminders that keep you grounded. I've been pondering this issue lately, especially after a quiet evening when my old chair seemed to "whisper" a question: "Did you pray today?" Okay, it didn't literally talk. I'm not losing it, but that chair has become a silent sentinel in my home prayer area, a touchstone that nudges me to keep my relationship with God daily and fresh. It got me thinking about the ancient practice of building altars in the Old Testament, those physical markers of divine encounters with God.

More Than Just Rocks and Rituals

In the Old Testament, altars weren't just random piles of stones. They were intentional acts of remembrance, worship, and commitment. Think about it. Life back then was nomadic, uncertain, and full of trials. The patriarchs like Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob built altars at pivotal moments to mark where God had shown up in a big way. For instance, after God promised Abraham descendants as numerous as the stars, Abraham built an altar at Bethel (Genesis 12:8). It was a way to say, "This happened here. God was faithful, and I won't forget."

These altars served multiple purposes. First, they were sites for sacrifice and communion with God, a physical space to offer thanks or seek forgiveness. But beyond that, they acted as memorials, tangible reminders for future generations. In a world without smartphones or journals, these structures shouted, "Remember what God did!" Philosophically, this ties into the concept of “symbolism” and “semiotics,” where objects carry deeper meanings beyond their material form. The altar becomes a signpost in the narrative of human-divine interaction, echoing existential philosophers like Kierkegaard, who emphasized the "leap of faith" and the need for personal markers in a world full of chaos.

Psychologically, altars function like environmental cues in Habit Formation Theory. According to psychologists like B.F. Skinner and more modern behavioral scientists, our surroundings can trigger routines. An altar isn't just a pile of rocks. It's a prompt to pause, reflect, and reconnect. It's like setting up a mental anchor, a term from neuro-linguistic programming (NLP), where a physical object evokes a specific emotional or spiritual state.

But here's where it becomes intriguing and a bit heartbreaking. Consider Joseph, the Hebrew dreamer who rose from slavery to become Egypt's savior. Through God-inspired wisdom, he interpreted Pharaoh's dreams and orchestrated a plan that stockpiled grain during years of plenty, staving off the effects of famine and saving not just Egypt but surrounding nations (Genesis 41-47). Yet, as time passed, "there arose a new king over Egypt, who did not know Joseph" (Exodus 1:8). I think this statement in and of itself describes the human condition. This shift led to the enslavement of the Israelites, setting the stage for the Exodus.

Egypt was a civilization obsessed with eternity. They built massive stone memorials like pyramids, obelisks, and temples that stand even today, honoring pharaohs and gods. But nothing was erected to preserve the memory of Joseph and his extraordinary, divinely guided insight. Why the oversight? Was it a subtle form of racism or xenophobia? Joseph was a Jew (a Hebrew), an outsider, and worse, from a family of sheep herders, a profession the Egyptians despised as lowly and unclean (Genesis 46:34). Shepherds were an "abomination" to them, a cultural bias that might have tainted how Joseph's contributions were viewed. This touches on “othering” in social identity theory, where in-groups marginalize out-groups, leading to erased histories. It's a case of “collective amnesia” or “ingroup favoritism,” where societies prioritize their own narratives, letting foreign heroes fade. It's a stark contrast to the intentional memorials in Israelite tradition, highlighting how, without deliberate touchstones, even world-changing acts can be forgotten.

A Monument to Miracles

One of my favorite stories that exemplifies this is from the book of Joshua. After 40 years wandering in the wilderness (talk about a long road trip!), the Israelites finally crossed into the Promised Land. But it wasn't a casual stroll. The Jordan River was at flood stage, a raging barrier. God parted the waters there, just like the Red Sea, allowing the people to cross on dry ground. Scripture states that God pushed the waters back all the way to the city named Adam. When God does a wonderful act of salvation, it potentially stretches all the way back to the first man, Adam. Notice the structure of the cross. It was placed in the earth on a hill called Golgotha, the place of the skull. It had one arm that pointed in one direction and the other arm in the opposite. The power of Jesus’ sacrifice not only reaches into the past but also into the future for all those who are yet to come to Him for salvation, while it remains planted in the skull, the present cognitive processes, or the mind.

Joshua, following God's command, had one man from each of the 12 tribes pick up a stone from the middle of the riverbed. They carried these boulders to their camp at Gilgal and stacked them as a memorial (Joshua 4:1-9). Why? So that when their kids asked, "What do these stones mean?" the parents could recount the miracle: "This is where God stopped the Jordan's flow for us." It was a deliberate act of legacy-building, ensuring the story of divine intervention didn't fade with time, unlike Joseph's legacy in Egypt, where no such stones were laid.

My "Talking" Chair

Fast-forward to today, and I don't have a pile of river rocks in my backyard (though that might be a cool idea). Instead, I have that chair where I am prone to pray. I have used it so much for that particular act until my mind (soul) has come to associate it with prayer. It now "asks" me if I've prayed, because when I walk by it without pausing to spend time with God, I feel a twinge of guilt. It's my personal altar, a touchstone that interrupts the autopilot of daily life, much like how Joseph's story reminds us that without anchors, wisdom can be lost to bias or time. Just a little talk with Jesus makes it right.

Whether it's ancient stones in a river, forgotten wisdom in Egypt, or a chatty chair in your home, the core idea is the same. We need reminders to keep our spiritual walks alive and our histories honest. In a world buzzing with distractions and sometimes subtle biases, these touchstones, these altars, ground us, blending the sacred with the everyday. Joseph's story challenges us. What legacies are we overlooking today because of who someone is or where they come from? Maybe it's time to build an altar, literally or figuratively.

Drop a comment below. I'd love to hear your stories. Until next time, stay anchored!