The wrong door . . . or no?

(The following is my own opinion, based on the facts as I am aware of at this moment.  My opinions may change as I learn more of the facts surrounding this case.)

In the summer of 1983, I lived in Dorman Hall at Florida State University.  One day, I came back from class and got into the elevator.  When the elevator door opened, I got off the elevator, turned down the hallway, went down a few feet and stuck my key in the lock of a door . . . and asked myself, why isn't the door unlocking?

That's when I looked up and saw that the number on the door was 206, not 306. 

I hadn't been paying attention and I got off on the wrong floor and went to the wrong door.  

In Dorman Hall, as in many residence halls built in the 1950's and 1960's, the corridors all look alike.  So unless you know what floor you've gotten off on, it's easy to go to the wrong door.

That's why, when I heard of the alleged circumstances surrounding Botham Jean's shooting, I understood how going to "the wrong door" could have been a possibility.  Amber Guyger, the Dallas police officer arrested and charged with his shooting, claims that, after a long shift, she parked on a level she normally didn't park on and ended up going to the wrong apartment.  Her apartment is directly below Botham Jean's.  The apartment complex where they both lived is described as having symmetrical hallways, and other residents, according to this New York Times article, have reported occasionally going to the wrong apartment.  Maybe that's why Botham Jean put his red mat in front of his door.

That doesn't explain, though, the door being ajar.

Although, if I thought it was my apartment, I'd be concerned. 

That also doesn't explain her not noticing the red mat in front of his door.  In the case of me going to the wrong door at Dorman Hall, though, I wasn't paying attention and I might not have seen a mat in front of the door. 

In her version of events, she opened the door to a dark apartment and saw a silhouette of someone, gave "verbal commands" and when he didn't respond, she shot him.  Then she turned on the lights and realized she was in the wrong apartment.

Lawyers for Botham Jean's family say that his door was closed.  Neighbors have said that they heard someone banging on the door shouting, "Let me in!" and "Open up!" before they heard gunshots.  They've also said they heard someone, maybe Botham Jean, saying, "Oh, my God, why did you do that?" 

Jean's family also say that he and Amber Guyger did not know each other.  

On the day of Jean's funeral, the media broadcast the results of a search warrant executed at his apartment.  The police found, according to an inventory:

• 2 fired cartridge casings
• a laptop computer
• a black backpack with police equipment and paperwork
• an insulated lunch box
• a black ballistic vest with "police" markings
• 10.4 grams of marijuana in ziplock bags (less than an ounce)
• a metal marijuana grinder
• 2 RFID keys'
• 2 used packages of medical aid

Of course, what did the media immediately pounce on?  The marijuana.  The lawyer for Botham Jean's family has accused the police of mounting a smear campaign against Botham Jean.  There's even been some speculation that the marijuana was planted in Jean's apartment. (The police had been called earlier to Jean's complex by someone complaining of a strong smell of marijuana on the floor where Jean lived.) 

We have yet to hear the results of any search warrant executed on Amber Guyger's apartment.  

In another account of events, Guyger was allegedly struggling with the lock when Jean opened the door and confronted her.  

Since I wasn't there, I can't tell you what happened.  There are only two people that know the whole truth, and one of them is dead.  In the early stages of any investigation, and especially a high-profile one with loads of media attention, there are going to be conflicting reports and reports that are downright wrong.

But what it all boils down to is this:  An African-American man was killed in his own home by a white off-duty police officer.

This is frightening.  

I'm a white woman.  As much as I may want to "get it", I will never truly "get it".  Just like people who want to will never truly "get" what my husband and I deal with in raising a son with autism. 

I'm a white woman who wants to believe that the Civil Rights movement and the laws that were passed as a result solved the race problem in this country.

I'm a white woman that wants to believe that law enforcement and the legal system is truly "blind" except to facts, and that people can objectively look at facts, piece them together, and come to a correct conclusion. 

But is this true?

There may be laws ending legalized discrimination, but those laws do nothing to change the hearts of people.  Attitudes cannot be legislated.  The attitude of racism and prejudice can't be changed by law.

And I only need to take a quick look at history to see that no, "the system" isn't blind except to facts. 

This particular shooting has resonated with me more than others have because Botham Jean was a member of the Church of Christ, as I am, and he graduated from the same university that many members of my congregation are affiliated with.  People I know are expressing deep anger and deep sorrow. 

Did Amber Guyger go to the wrong apartment by mistake, find the door ajar, go in, and shoot a man, thinking he was a burglar in her apartment?

Did she go to the wrong apartment by mistake, try to open a closed door, get confronted by Botham Jean, and shoot him?

Or did she go to his apartment on purpose to confront him and to shoot him?

Did she go to the wrong door?

Or no?

Right now, I don't know.  Right now, I don't have the answers.  Right now, I don't know all of the facts.  I only know that a lot of people are hurting and angry. 

This particular entry is mostly me, as a white woman, trying to work out my feelings and my observations about yet another white cop-black victim shooting in the United States.  The facts must come out.  Justice must be served for Botham Jean.  Amber Guyger must be treated as any other accused would be. 

I want justice.  I want truth.  And I don't want our anger and our grief to overshadow anyone's search for truth.  

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Me and Mrs. Baxter

One of my all-time favorite books is Celia Garth, a novel written by Gwen Bristow nearly 60 years ago.  It tells the story of a seamstress living in Charleston, South Carolina during the Revolutionary War, how she fell in love, lost her love, found love again . . . and by the way, she became a spy for the Revolutionary cause.

I recently re-read the book and found myself thinking about one of the minor characters, Mrs. Baxter.
When we meet Mrs. Baxter, she's telling a customer in Celia's dress shop about her little boy George, taking pains to explain that he was named for General Washington, not for that "stupid old king," George III. 

Later, we learn that her first name is Charlotte, but that she prefers to be called Patsy, because Charlotte is the name of the queen and Patsy is the nickname of Martha Washington. 

In the course of the book, Celia gets engaged, only to have her fiance and her family murdered by a band of British soldiers who also destroyed their property.  With her future destroyed, Celia, who had been staying with a woman for whom she sewed, decides to go back to work at the dress shop.  It's the low point in Celia's character arc, and it's before she is asked to become a spy for the American cause. 

Back in the dress shop, she muses on how the whole town has gone Tory.  And she thinks about a recent order from Mrs. Baxter, who wanted her handkerchiefs embroidered with the initial of her first name . . . C for Charlotte.  Celia wondered if people forgot that she used to detest being called by the name of the British queen.  Or, as long as she was being socially accepted by the winning side, maybe Mrs. Baxter just didn't care.

This is sometimes how I feel these days.

I feel like the only way to be accepted by anyone is to just not care about my convictions or even to have any.  No matter what I think, do, or say, someone is going to jump all over me and accuse me of being hateful to whatever group they think I'm being hateful to. 

I am so sick of the division in this country.  I'm reminded both of the Bible verse and Abraham Lincoln's speech in which they both said, a house divided among itself cannot stand.  We are divided among ourselves, racially, culturally, and in every other way possible.  People hate each other, and it's getting worse by the day.  I'm afraid to say anything to anyone about anything because I don't want to be accused of being a racist, bigot, or whatever other word they want to call me. 

Maybe I'm like Mrs. Baxter.  Maybe I just want to be "socially accepted" by the winning side. 

I am afraid of losing friends and relationships to the current political and cultural climate.  I want to accept the right of other people to have and express their opinions, but I also fear that if I express mine, I will be attacked and I will lose relationships.  I keep a lot of my politics off of my main Facebook page, but sometimes, I can't always keep my mouth shut or my hands off the keyboard.

African-Americans are hurting.  They deal with generations of racism, and even though the law has mostly outlawed overt signs of racism (e.g. "white only" and "black only" accommodations as one example), the law cannot change the inside of people.  The law can't force you not to be a racist or a bigot.

Hispanics are hurting.  Not every Hispanic in this country is here illegally.    And while I do believe that people in this country should learn to speak English, English is a difficult language to learn and I'm willing to cut people slack while they're learning it.

I believe we are all hurting. And I as a white person am even afraid to say things like, "How can I help?" because I don't want to be accused of being patronizing and/or condescending, like the white person swooping in on a broom to save the day.

I'm extremely discouraged, as I'm sure you can tell.  I feel like nothing I do or nothing I say is going to make one bit of difference, and I fear that I value my acceptance or social standing more than I do my integrity and my convictions on what is right and what is wrong.  I fear that any day now, the literal or figurative Molotov cocktail is going to be thrown that will launch either World War III or the Second Civil War.  I fear that I will have to pick sides, and that no matter what I do, I will lose acceptance.  Sure, it's fine for me to think or believe that I could stand alone if I absolutely had to . . . but I don't know if I could ever be that brave. 

Maybe I'm just as bad as Mrs. Baxter, who wanted social acceptance more than anything else. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Should I be a-Mused?

I've been delving into my genealogy using the site FamilySearch.com and have come up with some interesting insights.  For example, my family tree goes all the way back to Adam ben Elohim, son of Elohim and Heavenly Mother.  Eve is listed as having one parent, Adam's Rib. 

While I believe in the Bible and that there was a first couple named Adam and Eve, I'm very skeptical of any family trees giving an unbroken line all the way back to Adam.  I'm also skeptical of family trees containing any royalty unless the lineage is well documented. 

Closer to contemporary times, however, I've found interesting information.  One thing I have learned is that I have several Muses in my ancestry.  There are two jokes you can make about that; one, that I must have many muses for inspiration; two, that I can find things amusing; three, that I can look at people and say, "We are not amused."

Muse is the last name of my great-great grandfather.  His daughter married a Chitwood.  Their son married my grandmother and they, in turn, had my mother.  I don't know very much about my great-great grandfather Muse except names, dates, and locations, but from what I can learn, he seems like he was quite a character. 

For example, he's been known as Christopher C. Muse, C.C. Muse (the name on his marriage record to Nancy Sharp, my great-great grandmother), Christopher Micajah Muse, Micajah Muse, Mack Muse, and Mack C. Muse.  He may also have been known as Cage Muse.

I've discovered two children of his so far; one being my great-grandmother, Mary Etta Muse; the other being her brother, Richard Dow Muse.  According to the information I have, Richard was born in 1876; Etta, in 1881.  Christopher, C.C., whoever he is, and Nancy got married on June 6, 1882, according to the Tennessee State Marriage Index. 

I can't find very much information on Nancy except that she was also married to a man named Blevins and had two other kids with him. 

This branch of my family has roots in Scott County, Tennessee.  Scott County lies just west of I-75, about an hour's drive northwest from Knoxville.  Its name comes from General Winfield Scott, a Mexican War hero (and the county does include a town named Winfield.)  I did a fast Wikipedia search and learned that during the Civil War, Scott County seceded from the state of Tennessee and formed the "Free and Independent State of Scott".  They were a pro-Union enclave during the Civil War.    That proclamation was finally repealed in 1986. 



Reading that story, it makes me think that the people of Scott County had the attitude of, "No one is going to tell US what to do!"  That can be a good thing; it's an attitude that breeds rock-solid convictions and people of integrity who will not be moved no matter what the circumstances. It can also be a bad thing when it breeds stubbornness and sinful pride, and the Bible contains plenty of warnings about sinful pride. 

When Christopher, Micajah, whatever he called himself, decided to refer to himself by various and sundry names, he didn't know that his great-great granddaughter would one day have information at her fingertips that would leave her shaking her head and muttering, "We are not a-Mused." 

On the other hand, it does make me wonder what my great-great grandfather was like and how much the Free State of Scott influenced him! 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation

Fifty years ago . . .

Fifty years ago this summer, a cream-colored Vista Cruiser station wagon, complete with faux wood panels, containing a husband, wife, and two squabbling children in the back seat, rolled across Tampa Bay and past the sign which announced "Entering Pinellas County."

The Sergent family had arrived, and St. Petersburg, Florida would never be the same. 

I was four going on five.  My sister had just turned eight.  I don't remember anything about the trip.  If we did what we usually did on a road trip back then--started at night so that my sister and I could sleep in the car--then that's probably why I don't remember it. 

I do remember, however, the places we stayed before we finally moved into the house we were renting. 

We stayed, in this order, at the Weary Traveler Motel and the Grey Gull Motel on Madeira Beach and at the Cadillac Motel at the corner of 38th Avenue and 34th Street North in St. Petersburg.  There's a Burger King there now, but the bank next door is still there (although now under different management) and Bert Smith's is still kitty-corner across the street.  When we first moved there, it was Bert Smith Oldsmobile; now, it's Bert Smith BMW. 

And even though I don't remember house-hunting, I do remember an Atlas Van Lines moving truck in front of the house that we moved into.  We rented that house for a few months before we bought it. 

My grandmother had to remind me that she did not make the trip with us.  She did not come to Florida until October (I guess to settle affairs).  I can't remember my grandmother actually arriving and me being glad to see her, but I do remember standing outside the old Tampa International Airport.  Years later, when I was 11 and taking my first commercial plane ride, I was surprised to see how much the airport had changed. 

When I visit St. Petersburg these days, my first thoughts are usually about how much things have changed over the years.  That was especially true on my last visit.  I didn't recognize my old high school, buildings existed along 34th Street that I'd never seen before, and while the public library is still there and hasn't changed on the outside, it's reorganized on the inside. 

I sometimes wonder if life would have been "better" if we'd stayed in Harlan County, Kentucky.  I guess that's normal to wonder when you hit my age, what would it have been like if we had . . . and the only fair answer I can give is, it would have been different. 

When we packed up the Vista Cruiser and drove 16 hours to St. Petersburg, life changed.  It changed us.  We changed St. Petersburg simply by the fact that we showed up. 

Here's a good question for me to ask, though:  Did we change it for the better? 

When we hit town, moved into the new house, started school, started work, whatever it was we did over the last 50 years, did we change things for the better?  Were the schools that my sister and I went to better because we were there?  When our teachers talked about us, did they remember us as decent students?  My father was a teacher at two junior highs and a high school.  Did they remember him as a good teacher?  (At least one of the girls who bullied me in school later told me, when we were both adults, "He was a wonderful teacher."  She also apologized to me for being a bully.)  My mother ended up running a day care; before that, she led my and my sister's Girl Scout troop.  Did they remember her fondly? 

I'd like to think that when that Vista Cruiser rolled into town 50 years ago, we ended up making a difference for the better.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

This is normal?

"Only in an environment in which abuse of all kinds is normalized could sexual abuse on this scale happen."

I read that statement two nights ago while scrolling through Twitter and was astonished at my absolute visceral reaction of rage to it.

That sentence comes from a new forward to Joan Ryan's book Little Girls In Pretty Boxes, which details the toxic environment that gymnasts and figure skaters are too often subjected to.  American gymnast Jamie Dantzscher, who wrote the new forward, describes the verbal and emotional abuse she endured while training for the Olympic Games.  She made the women's gymnastics team for the 2000 Olympic Games, they placed fourth overall . . . and were made to feel like complete failures.  She trained with numerous injuries and when she told her coaches that she was hurt, they didn't believe her. 

She was also one of the over 200 women abused by Dr. Larry Nassar, and one of the first to file a civil lawsuit against him. 

"Only in an environment in which abuse of all kinds is normalized could sexual abuse on this scale happen."

I've never been sexually abused.  But I know where my visceral reaction of rage came from. 

It came from the fact that the abuse I suffered--the abuse from being bullied and from being spiritually abused--was absolutely normalized.

The bullied are told, like I was, that they should just "ignore it" or "tell an adult" or "stand up to them" or "it's just part of life, suck it up and get over it" or "they do it because they're jealous of you" or "they just have low self-esteem and this is the way they build themselves up" and, if the victims are Christians, they are told, "forgive them and turn the other cheek".  They are also told that "no one likes a tattletale or a snitch" and "if you fight back, you will be the one punished and the bullies will not be".

In the meantime, the pushes and shoves, the gossip and the embarrassing questions, the blocking in the hallway and the torment in gym class go on and on.

"Only in an environment in which abuse of all kinds is normalized could sexual abuse on this scale happen."

The spiritually abused are told, "we are the only ones with the truth" or "if you leave us, you leave God" or "The Bible says to rebuke others when they sin" or "You need to be held accountable" or "The Bible says you need to be bold in sharing your faith" or "They're your leaders and you must submit to them, even if they are ungodly" or "When you get married, you can't leave your husband even if he beats you" or "If you don't show up to every single meeting of 'the body' you are uncommitted and in danger of falling away". 

The spiritually abused are expected to put up with harsh sermons, blasting, yelling, orders to "push through" exhaustion and illness, and questioned as to why they didn't get up early in the morning to have a 'quiet time', why they didn't invite anyone to church that day, why they struggle so much with depression, why can't you just repent of your sin and move on?

Yesterday I asked myself the question, what is normal faith?

I understand that Christianity is counter-culture by its very nature.  I follow a man who claimed to be God and whose followers claim that he died and he was raised from the dead.  His followers taught that we needed to love one another and not repay evil for evil.  In an environment where the emperor was worshiped as God, they were taught to honor the emperor but confess Jesus as Lord and worship him only.  In today's culture of "tolerance" and "there are many ways to get to God", Jesus says that no one comes to the Father except through him.  If you want to be popular with the "in crowd", Christianity is not the way to go. 

But is normal faith being told that you have to walk up to strangers on the street, or go up to every cashier you meet, and invite them to church, otherwise, you are disobeying God's command to be bold? 

Does normal faith involve putting up with the advances of a leader because "he's your leader and you have to submit"? 

Is normal faith attending every single gathering of a body of believers even when you are exhausted down to the bone marrow and can barely put one foot in front of the other? 

In normal faith, is "forgiveness" defined as, "I say I'm sorry, you say I forgive you, and we both pretend it never happened?" in cases of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse?

What is normal faith?  There are times I just don't know. 

When abuse of all kinds is normalized, not just sexual abuse on a grand scale can happen, but any kind of abuse:  bullying, spiritual abuse, emotional/verbal abuse between spouses or between boss/employee or any kind of leader/follower. 

It is time for us to stop normalizing abuse.  Bullying is not to be normalized.  Neither is sexual abuse.  Neither is spiritual abuse. 

It should never be normal for someone to go to school and be afraid that their lunch will be stolen, that they will be gossiped about, that they will be pushed and shoved in the hallways . . . and it should never be normal that when they tell an adult, the adult won't believe them.

It should never be normal for someone to be tense around other Christians because they're afraid of being rebuked for not inviting a large number of people to church or Bible study.  Or, for not living up to the standard that the leader has set. 

Abuse is not normal.  And it never should be.

Not in any environment.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Are we talking about the same person here?

On Mother's Day some years ago, I read a tribute to a mother talking about how the child admired her and how she was such an example to her.

I read that tribute and thought, "Are we talking about the same person here?"

You see, that child was my niece . . . and her mother is my sister.

Don't worry, this is not going to be a "sister dearest" post, where I say, "Oh, everyone thinks my sister is this wonderful, great person, but she has everyone fooled.  Only I know the real story!"  Rather, this is a post about perceptions and how they change over the years.

I think one of the major problems with siblings is that we still tend to see each other as children.  We see each other as we were at age 2, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17.  We remember fighting over the bathroom, fighting over clothes, fighting over who got what side of the bed, ("Mom!  She's hogging all the covers!" "She's kicking me!")  Older sister is still bossy; younger sister is still the brat. 

We don't allow ourselves to see our siblings as the grown-ups they are.  We don't allow ourselves to think that hey, they're people who haven't necessarily had it easy in life.  We immobilize them in concrete, so to speak, and we don't allow them to break out of the mold we've put them in.

Today is my sister's birthday.  She's three years older than I am (and when we were younger, she didn't let me forget it, either.)  We have had our share, and probably more than our share, of arguments, fights, and other conflict. 

But lately, I've been thinking through my sister's life, and I realize that she has not had it all that easy.

My sister was eight when we moved to Florida from Kentucky.  She was the one that had to leave friends behind.  She'd already started school; she had to leave teachers behind and a familiar school.  She left behind a best friend.  I remember my sister's best friend writing her letters after we moved to Florida.  She was the "new student" in third grade, wearing short sleeves when everyone else was wearing sweaters in cold weather.  It just didn't feel that cold to her! 

She started working around the age of 14, not because she "had to" but because she wanted to.  I can't remember if her first job was working with kids or working at the ice cream shop in the mall.  Later, she went to work at a drugstore.  One Saturday, she came charging into the house, not terrified, but furious, and announced, "We got robbed!"  Someone had come in and demanded money.  They cooperated.  No one got hurt.  (Afterwards, she said, "I need a donut, bad!")  Although that had to be frightening, she handled the aftermath with good humor. 

Like most women, she wanted a relationship, and like most women, she had to kiss her share of toads before finding her prince.  She got married in the mid-80's and for the next few years balanced work and marriage.  (I remember visiting her one time and seeing a magnet on her refrigerator, "Never trust a cook under 30.")  She found a successful career working with municipal bonds. 

Her daughter, my niece, was born in the mid-'90s; and soon after, my sister's marriage ended. 

I don't know what it's like to be a single parent.  I can only imagine my sister's thoughts about raising a daughter alone.  She was fortunate in that she was able to live with our mother.  "Nana," (my mother) babysat, and together, they made a family. 

Did my sister imagine that she would find love again?  I don't know.  But she did.  At this writing, she's been married for 18 years.  Her relationship with her second husband can be summed up in this sentence:  My niece asked if her stepfather could adopt her so they could all have the same name . . . and the stepfather agreed.

When her job at the municipal bond firm ended, she partnered with her husband in their business.  (She had a good role model; my parents worked together running a day care center for many years.)  They stay busy, meeting the challenges of satisfying their customers. 

She's been the one that my parents have relied on when they've needed help.  When my father got sick with ALS, she was the one who came and mowed the lawn, who did what needed to be done and what my mother couldn't do. 

When my mother's health began to decline, she was the one that took charge of her care.  I don't think it ever occurred to her not to advocate for our mother.  After all, Mom raised us.  How could my sister not do the same? 

She kept me informed, and she made the difficult decisions that had to be made along the way.  I had no doubt that she would do the right thing where Mom was concerned; and when the time came to carry out Mom's final wishes, she did it. 

The road has not been easy for my sister, and I don't think I appreciate that as much as I should.  It's too easy for me to still see her as "bossy older sister", and to immobilize her in concrete, rather than appreciate that she's an adult with a good head on her shoulders and who knows how to take care of the people and circumstances around her. 

So, if you have a niece or nephew, and one day you see a Mother's Day tribute to them, and you wonder, "are we talking about the same person here?" you have a few choices.

Maybe it's true that your sibling really is the bossy, bratty sibling that you grew up with. 

Or maybe, just maybe -- as in my case -- your niece or nephew just might be right!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Sit, Christian, sit!

Some time back, a Facebook friend of mine, Bobby Valentine, wrote a Facebook post about the concept of "precision obedience".  The concept goes something like this:  God has precise requirements and he expects us to obey them precisely.  Or, God wants us to do exactly what he says exactly the way he says it.

This got my attention.  I'm a Christian, and I want to obey God.  What Christian doesn't?  Wouldn't it be good to "precisely" obey God?

So I did a trusty Google search of the phrase, "precision obedience".

Know what else came up in my search, besides articles on the teaching of "precision obedience"?

Dog training.

Yes, this doctrine, that we are supposed to do "exactly" what God says "exactly" the way he says it, apparently is on the same level as teaching Rover, Fido, and Spot how to sit, stand, heel, lie down, roll over, and play dead!

Does this mean that we have to do "exactly" what God says "exactly" the way he says it and be rewarded with the spiritual equivalent of a doggy treat?

Look, I get that God calls us to obey him.  Jesus himself said, "If you love me, you will obey my commandments."  We are called to obedience and we are called to a particular standard of living, a particular "code of conduct", if you will, as Christians. 

But here's my problem with the whole concept of "precision obedience".

One, it's not possible.  No one can "precisely obey" anything.  I found it interesting that this article about "precision obedience" appealed to the book of Deuteronomy -- the "second giving" of the Jewish law -- to support the argument that yes, we are called to "precisely obey" what God says.  Apparently the writer forgot that the purpose of the law was to lead us to Christ, and now that faith has come, we are no longer under the supervision of the law (Galatians 3:25).

Two, how do you quantify "precision obedience"?  Jesus himself said that the two greatest commandments are to love God and love your neighbor as yourself.  (Matthew 22:36-40, Mark 12:31, Luke 10:27.)  How do you measure love?  How do you "precisely obey" the command to "love your neighbor as yourself"?  Is there a standard that you can point to that says, you "precisely" obeyed the command to love?

Three, and this is my biggest problem with this entire concept:

Who decides?

Who decides what "precision obedience" is?  And do not tell me, "God decides," because there are plenty of places that he doesn't give us precise guidelines of what to do.  He tells us to "love our neighbor".  He doesn't tell us exactly how to do it.  He tells us to "forgive as the Lord forgave you".  He doesn't give us a formula of how to forgive.  (Believe me, I wish he had!)

Are you not "precisely obeying" if you drop off your church contribution at the office on Friday instead of putting it in the offering plate on Sunday?  Or, if you do your contribution by direct deposit instead of putting in the offering plate? 

If you do Sunday School first and then worship service, are you "precisely obeying"?

What about if you use an overhead projector instead of hymnbooks?

What if you use multiple cups for communion instead of one?  Or pass a plate that has BOTH the bread and the grape juice on it, instead of passing a plate with bread and then passing a plate with juice cups?

And don't get me started on instrumental music.  (For those who comment that the early church didn't use instruments, the early church also didn't use four-part harmony.  If we REALLY want to do things the way the first century did, we'd be singing in something similar to Gregorian chant!)

Although the desire to find out what God wants us to do and to do it is right--and we should find out what God wants us to do and then do it!--this whole concept of "precision obedience" is nothing more than salvation by law-keeping.  Paul wrote an entire book, the book of Galatians, on the fallacy of salvation by the law.  And James wrote that anyone who keeps the whole law but stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it. (James 2:10)  Peter, in the book of Acts, refers to law-keeping as a yoke that neither they nor their ancestors were able to bear (Acts 15:10). 

"Precision obedience" puts a believer, metaphorically speaking, on a tightrope walking over Niagara Falls.  One slip, and they're doomed!  They will fall into the bubbling waters of Lake Ontario, and the Maid of the Mist will probably not be there to catch them. 

This whole idea of "precision obedience" reminds me of the very end of Family Ties, although I'd probably change it to the following:

"Sit, Christian, sit!"

"Good dog."

Woof!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.