Are you familiar with the magic trick of pulling the cloth off the table and nothing moves, breaks or falls off the table? Great attention getter....if you can pull it off (no pun intended...okay...just a tad). The trick is similar to juggling. For the experienced practitioner, the challenge is how many items can you juggle and/or how many different items can you juggle. For the less experienced, the challenge is: what can you afford to drop. I jokingly tell people at work: "I can juggle, the question is do you want the Fostoria Crystal or the Corelle Ware to hit the floor?".
I think we sometime view our Christianity as a juggling act or tablecloth pulling act. If we don't perform the trick correctly and we break something, we want to yell at the magician who taught us the trick. I understand the physics and science of juggling and tablecloth pulling but I don't try either trick with breakable objects. I'm not that skilled. I have a great deal of respect and appreciation for those who can perform either trick.
Christian life is very much a juggling act: worshiping a magnificent, unbounded God, getting "pulled" off the table by life; slapped in the face by illness, disease, or death; dreams crushed or delayed. Some might think it offensive to question God about life events such as a father being taken from a daughter; death of a spouse due to an aggressive, terminal illness; a failed crop that was supposed to provide financial benefit.
I do not have a rock solid, verifiable, concrete answer to why "bad" things happen to Christians other than Christians live in a sinful world. Yes, I know that might be considered a cheesy, easy out answer. What I do know, by personal experience, is God is always with you listening to your heart, mind, and voice. God doesn't take offensive when you question why. Think about this for a moment: God freely gave His Son to die a horrible, painful death for His creation. Don't you think God is touched by our illness, suffering, and losing a loved one?
Yes, it is difficult to wake up day after day when your life has been touched by illness, suffering, death, or broken dreams. Acknowledging who has allowed you to wake up and have another day of life makes getting up possible. I believe one of the greatest witnesses a Christian has is their response to life's challenges. Do you get angry and ticked off and then stay that way? Do you get upset, yell and scream, and then turn to God for guidance, support, and endurance?
There a two women, Mrs. T and Mrs. N, in my church who are, to me, examples of asking God for guidance, support and endurance. Mrs. T has been in remission from breast cancer for several years but the cancer has recently returned in her bones. Mrs. T always seems to have a pleasant spirit even on her "bad" days when the cancer is bothering her. My thought is: if Mrs. T can get up each day and present a pleasant spirit in spite of the pain and disease, so can I.
The other woman, Mrs. N, has lupus and is in some degree of pain most of the time. She is also an encouragement when I look at her: she always seems to have a smile on her face or presents a pleasant spirit through her pain. Mrs. N causes me to view my problems as insignificant compared to daily being in pain.
From listening to their testimony, I know each has a security that God is in control and will take care of them either by providing them the strength to daily participate in life or provide them a painless life with Him. I'm sure, based on human nature, each has their days when they get discouraged and feel they have been "pulled off the table". Their pleasant spirit seems to indicate they don't "stay on the floor". Instead, each asks God for strength to live another day, witness to another person, love their spouse one more day and give a kind word to a stranger. Last but not least each acknowledges God is in control and is the daily provider of their strength, endurance and life.
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
God, failure and the 'ouch' moment
American society seems to place a heavy emphasis on success. There are championship contests: World Series, Super Bowl, NCAA Final Four. We have indictors of success: large homes, fancy cars, big SUVs, expensive clothes. But is success really defined by having the most, the biggest, or the most expensive?
How about failure? If one does not have a Super Bowl ring, 3000+ sq. ft. house, Mercedes SUV, or Christian Dior, are you a failure? Or do you have a different standard for measuring success? Does God have a standard for determining success?
Would we consider Moses, Solomon or Job a success? What about Peter, Thomas, or Paul? One could pick any person from the Bible and ask this question after reading about the individual. Given the broad spectrum of people mentioned in the Bible, it would seem God has a very different standard for determining success or failure.
Saturday evening, Pagus presented the "Splendor and Holiness" seminar. The Pagus Event Staff had worked to find and secure a facility based on their faith in God and purchased ad time from the leading, local Christian radio station serving the audience Pagus would like to reach. The staff worked to create quality, professional looking promotional material about Pagus and the seminar. The staff devoted several days to in-person contact with area churches instead of mailing the promo material. The Pagus volunteer staff came Saturday evening to support the seminar by taking on the small but important jobs. All was ready! Open the doors, let the masses come and bask in the presentation of God's Splendor and Holiness!
Cue the chirping crickets.
Pagus had scheduled, promoted, and planned for a successful seminar based on their belief in God's leadership. Not as many people showed up as planned for; too many handouts printed, and a large venue filled with a handful of people. One of the presenters, at 5 minutes after the scheduled start time, said "This is an ouch moment". The director of the venue encouraged the Pagus staff to give the presentation since "every\thing was paid for". The presentation was given and the stage with its red velvet curtain provided an impressive back drop for the volunteer videographers to capture the presentation.
Did Pagus fail or did God provide success? From a human viewpoint, Pagus failed since the required number of attendees to break even did not appear, hours had been invested in feet-to-the-ground promotion, the radio ad did not produce anticipated results and the beautiful Broken Arrow PAC was wasted on a handful of people.
What is not seen is the number of people who will potentially be witnessed to by Pagus moving forward with what they believe is God's direction for Pagus. What about the contacts made during in-person promotion? What about the networking potential of the radio sales manager? What about the pastors who expressed an interest in having Pagus speak at their church? What about the potential for the video to touch people?
The potential for God to use each of us is unlimited because we cannot understand how He will take our perceived failure and create success for Himself. Let me throw out a Biblical example or two: Job, Paul, Peter, Thomas. As humans, we have difficulty with limiting a limitless God. We like things to be solid, touchable, and definable. All properties opposite of who and what God is considering He created the heavens from nothing just by speaking.
How about failure? If one does not have a Super Bowl ring, 3000+ sq. ft. house, Mercedes SUV, or Christian Dior, are you a failure? Or do you have a different standard for measuring success? Does God have a standard for determining success?
Would we consider Moses, Solomon or Job a success? What about Peter, Thomas, or Paul? One could pick any person from the Bible and ask this question after reading about the individual. Given the broad spectrum of people mentioned in the Bible, it would seem God has a very different standard for determining success or failure.
Saturday evening, Pagus presented the "Splendor and Holiness" seminar. The Pagus Event Staff had worked to find and secure a facility based on their faith in God and purchased ad time from the leading, local Christian radio station serving the audience Pagus would like to reach. The staff worked to create quality, professional looking promotional material about Pagus and the seminar. The staff devoted several days to in-person contact with area churches instead of mailing the promo material. The Pagus volunteer staff came Saturday evening to support the seminar by taking on the small but important jobs. All was ready! Open the doors, let the masses come and bask in the presentation of God's Splendor and Holiness!
Cue the chirping crickets.
Pagus had scheduled, promoted, and planned for a successful seminar based on their belief in God's leadership. Not as many people showed up as planned for; too many handouts printed, and a large venue filled with a handful of people. One of the presenters, at 5 minutes after the scheduled start time, said "This is an ouch moment". The director of the venue encouraged the Pagus staff to give the presentation since "every\thing was paid for". The presentation was given and the stage with its red velvet curtain provided an impressive back drop for the volunteer videographers to capture the presentation.
Did Pagus fail or did God provide success? From a human viewpoint, Pagus failed since the required number of attendees to break even did not appear, hours had been invested in feet-to-the-ground promotion, the radio ad did not produce anticipated results and the beautiful Broken Arrow PAC was wasted on a handful of people.
What is not seen is the number of people who will potentially be witnessed to by Pagus moving forward with what they believe is God's direction for Pagus. What about the contacts made during in-person promotion? What about the networking potential of the radio sales manager? What about the pastors who expressed an interest in having Pagus speak at their church? What about the potential for the video to touch people?
The potential for God to use each of us is unlimited because we cannot understand how He will take our perceived failure and create success for Himself. Let me throw out a Biblical example or two: Job, Paul, Peter, Thomas. As humans, we have difficulty with limiting a limitless God. We like things to be solid, touchable, and definable. All properties opposite of who and what God is considering He created the heavens from nothing just by speaking.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Redeeming the Past
There are some memories that we lock away in the deepest part of ourselves. Memories too dark and traumatic to ever see the light of day, so we ignore them, push them a little deeper into ourselves and hope that no one can see. Hope that no one will ever guess that this one moment captured so pristinely in our minds but so carefully concealed touches every part of who we are, influences every decision that we make, and haunts even our happiest moments, stealing its beauty.
All of us have a memory like this, a childhood trauma – a death, a lose, abuse, or maybe even something we have done in our weaker moments. It is our greatest shame, and our deepest hurt. It seems as if our lives are divided as to what came before and what comes after. And while we may push it aside, it waits quietly in the wings waiting to leap from its rickety cage and destroy all that we have tried to build.
We try to deny that this one moment has become our defining moment. We tell ourselves that it had nothing to do with our choice to take the safe route home, avoided that relationship, or picked our college major, but it did. It always does.
We hate it for that reason, not just for the pain that it caused in that instance, but for every time we bow before it as if it happened earlier this morning. Knowing that our odd choices and decisions can never be fully explained, even to those who love us, because then we would have to admit what happened, share with another that piece of ourselves that even we can’t love. So we hide, hide from those who love us, hide from ourselves, and hope to God, He really can’t see everything.
And that’s the problem, we know that at some point, somewhere, someone is going to see right through our façade, and it scares us to death. So we live our whole lives afraid, afraid and angry. Hoping that our anger, our shell of self sufficiency, or self sacrifice, is enough to keep people just far enough away we will never be forced to deal with the issue we refuse to admit exists.
And that’s the problem, it is all about ourselves. We try to fix it alone in the dark. We hope that another self help book shoved under the edge of our mattresses will hold the key, help us create another or better cage. We think that we need to take care of this our self, that it only affects our self, and that it will all be okay with a little more self discipline, self punishment, self mutilation. Anything, as long as we can keep any one from finding out.
I can write this way because I have my own stock pile of memories, things that I did, things that were done to me. I know firsthand how they cripple us, eating away at our hopes and dreams, preventing us from reaching out to help another because we don’t even feel worthy to do that. What I did or what was done to me, doesn’t matter. Fill in the blanks with your own list for now, and perhaps one day, over a cup of coffee, I will share.
The point is the particular memory doesn’t matter. It never has. All that matters is it was enough to leave a mark on your soul. And as long as we make it our life’s goal to cover up that mark, we are denying the power of God to redeem all things to his glory. Oh, we can say we have great faith, live a life that seems to demonstrate our maturity and dependence on the Lord, but it’s all a lie and we are living a faithless life.
So how do move into a life that declares that God is faithful and capable of redeeming anything that we freely release to him? We learn how to stop hiding. We find people we can trust, and we tell them our story – every horrifying detail. We tell them the worst of what have experienced, the worst of what we have done, and we stop trying to control the consequences. We let God take care of that.
I won’t lie to you. It is the scariest thing you will ever do. You will feel bare and vulnerable. Your voice will give out, and you will convince yourself no one will ever love you if you say a word. Your head will feel as if it is going to split open like an overripe melon, all your ideas spilling like rotten pulp onto the ground. It will hurt. You will be able to feel the memory being extracted from your being, like a colossal splinter leaving your heart, and somewhere along the way, the nausea will set in. And the voices in the back of your head, the ones you have relied on for so long to keep you safe will tell you to run, not today, do it later, you need more time.
The thing is, our God deserves the highest honor we can give him. And like so many God things, this one seems so backwards to our human minds, so we give him our worst. Our worst moment, our worst pain, our worst shame. It makes no sense but this is the beauty of who He is. Because this amazing God takes all of it and redeems it, turning it into something beautiful and amazing. Our stories are transformed, becoming the reason to praise, becoming the promise of hope for others who once thought they were alone. And as we experience His healing, it our story, our testimony that becomes the means through which we participate in His redemption of not only ourselves, but the world.
All of us have a memory like this, a childhood trauma – a death, a lose, abuse, or maybe even something we have done in our weaker moments. It is our greatest shame, and our deepest hurt. It seems as if our lives are divided as to what came before and what comes after. And while we may push it aside, it waits quietly in the wings waiting to leap from its rickety cage and destroy all that we have tried to build.
We try to deny that this one moment has become our defining moment. We tell ourselves that it had nothing to do with our choice to take the safe route home, avoided that relationship, or picked our college major, but it did. It always does.
We hate it for that reason, not just for the pain that it caused in that instance, but for every time we bow before it as if it happened earlier this morning. Knowing that our odd choices and decisions can never be fully explained, even to those who love us, because then we would have to admit what happened, share with another that piece of ourselves that even we can’t love. So we hide, hide from those who love us, hide from ourselves, and hope to God, He really can’t see everything.
And that’s the problem, we know that at some point, somewhere, someone is going to see right through our façade, and it scares us to death. So we live our whole lives afraid, afraid and angry. Hoping that our anger, our shell of self sufficiency, or self sacrifice, is enough to keep people just far enough away we will never be forced to deal with the issue we refuse to admit exists.
And that’s the problem, it is all about ourselves. We try to fix it alone in the dark. We hope that another self help book shoved under the edge of our mattresses will hold the key, help us create another or better cage. We think that we need to take care of this our self, that it only affects our self, and that it will all be okay with a little more self discipline, self punishment, self mutilation. Anything, as long as we can keep any one from finding out.
I can write this way because I have my own stock pile of memories, things that I did, things that were done to me. I know firsthand how they cripple us, eating away at our hopes and dreams, preventing us from reaching out to help another because we don’t even feel worthy to do that. What I did or what was done to me, doesn’t matter. Fill in the blanks with your own list for now, and perhaps one day, over a cup of coffee, I will share.
The point is the particular memory doesn’t matter. It never has. All that matters is it was enough to leave a mark on your soul. And as long as we make it our life’s goal to cover up that mark, we are denying the power of God to redeem all things to his glory. Oh, we can say we have great faith, live a life that seems to demonstrate our maturity and dependence on the Lord, but it’s all a lie and we are living a faithless life.
So how do move into a life that declares that God is faithful and capable of redeeming anything that we freely release to him? We learn how to stop hiding. We find people we can trust, and we tell them our story – every horrifying detail. We tell them the worst of what have experienced, the worst of what we have done, and we stop trying to control the consequences. We let God take care of that.
I won’t lie to you. It is the scariest thing you will ever do. You will feel bare and vulnerable. Your voice will give out, and you will convince yourself no one will ever love you if you say a word. Your head will feel as if it is going to split open like an overripe melon, all your ideas spilling like rotten pulp onto the ground. It will hurt. You will be able to feel the memory being extracted from your being, like a colossal splinter leaving your heart, and somewhere along the way, the nausea will set in. And the voices in the back of your head, the ones you have relied on for so long to keep you safe will tell you to run, not today, do it later, you need more time.
The thing is, our God deserves the highest honor we can give him. And like so many God things, this one seems so backwards to our human minds, so we give him our worst. Our worst moment, our worst pain, our worst shame. It makes no sense but this is the beauty of who He is. Because this amazing God takes all of it and redeems it, turning it into something beautiful and amazing. Our stories are transformed, becoming the reason to praise, becoming the promise of hope for others who once thought they were alone. And as we experience His healing, it our story, our testimony that becomes the means through which we participate in His redemption of not only ourselves, but the world.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Dreaded Questions and Keys to our Future
My cousin-in-law came over the other night and asked me the dreaded question. The one that I absolutely hate to hear, “So, Em, when are you ever going to finish that painting?” I shrugged and said something noncommittal, but inside I was asking myself the same question. When am I going to finish that painting?
I have two styles of painting. One is the rushed exhilarating type that comes over me with the force of an Oklahoma thunderstorm. These paintings seem to demand that I capture them quickly and with force. My brush strokes are strong and sure. I don’t even have to know where they are going. My job is to simply follow the nebulous of an idea until it reveals its totality on the canvas. These are the ones that I step away from wondering that I had that inside of me.
The second is far more demanding of me. It is one that emerges from my psyche fully formed, requiring that I render it in strict accordance to the image presented. It does not change, from start to finish, it is constant, reshaping and forming me into the proper tool for its creation. It calls upon all my skill and mastery of technique to capture it. There is often a lot of scraping of paint, removing those parts that offend the image, reshaping my mistakes and starting over again.
I hate these paintings. They are like spoiled children whining to have things their way, and nothing less will suffice. The worst part is I know that the idea, that spark of inspiration that called them into being deserves the very best I can give it, but they are nothing more than a mirror, exposing my flaws, my weaknesses both as an artist and a person. They reveal too much. The painting and I know it.
Often these are the paintings that adorn my walls in various stages of completion. I stare at them, sometimes for years, probing them, hoping to find a fatal flaw that will keep me from having to complete it. Knowing I lack the talent and the skill to do justice the image that was presented in my mind.
The painting in question is one that I have worked on for at least three years. I say worked on, but any of the visitors to my home could challenge that. I have alternately stared at it and ignored it the past three years, wondering if and dreading when I would pull out my paints and begin again. There is a story in the painting, one that I later found myself telling in a novel but that is a different tale entirely, and it is one that is finished.
I think when I began the painting, I was still asking the question of how the story would play out. In many ways the painting is the question, and now I know the answer. And it wasn’t nearly as important as I once thought. Over the past few months I have struggled with if I should even try to finish it, or if I should just paint over it, fill the canvas with a new image, a happier image, or one that is more beautiful. In some ways it seems almost like a betrayal to revisit it now that I am living in this new life.
But every time I go near the painting, I see the time and the care I put into it. The details that were painstakingly wrought, details another will probably never see, and I think it is some of my finest work. It deserves to be finished. It deserves to be completed, and then perhaps sold to hang on another’s wall. Maybe they are asking the question, maybe they are holding out the keys to someone they love, hoping that they will reach out and take them from their hand. Maybe their answer will be different and it will be a happy ending for those people in the painting.
Or perhaps, I need to find away to give life to the truth. He never reached out to take the keys. He never deigned to lower his eyes to see they had been extended to him. And it was a good thing. Yes, the refusal hurt in that time and place, but once I learned to free myself, to look about me there was someone who didn’t need my keys. He didn’t need my answers, he just needed me.
Maybe this is the day when the painting will stop dictating its form, and will conform to my desire, when I stop being the tool for its expression and it becomes the means of mine. It’s a scary step to say that I am the one who gets to make the choice that I will determine its final form. No longer will I be able to shrug off a compliment or a critique, I will have to accept responsibility for what is before me with full knowledge that I was the one who made the decision. I will have to make myself vulnerable to every eye perceptive enough to see the truth, and this is something I have avoided for a very long time.
We all create our lives from our choices. We all sculpt and hollow out our bit of reality with every decision we make. We can claim to be victims of circumstance, and sometimes we truly are, but what we do with those circumstances is what determines how our world looks. And sometimes we have to stop hiding from ourselves long enough to create the change we so desperately need to move forward. I don’t look forward to changing the painting, covering over my mistakes is going to be hard to hide, but if I am ever going to completely step out of the shadow of that story it is time to make a new decision.
I have two styles of painting. One is the rushed exhilarating type that comes over me with the force of an Oklahoma thunderstorm. These paintings seem to demand that I capture them quickly and with force. My brush strokes are strong and sure. I don’t even have to know where they are going. My job is to simply follow the nebulous of an idea until it reveals its totality on the canvas. These are the ones that I step away from wondering that I had that inside of me.
The second is far more demanding of me. It is one that emerges from my psyche fully formed, requiring that I render it in strict accordance to the image presented. It does not change, from start to finish, it is constant, reshaping and forming me into the proper tool for its creation. It calls upon all my skill and mastery of technique to capture it. There is often a lot of scraping of paint, removing those parts that offend the image, reshaping my mistakes and starting over again.
I hate these paintings. They are like spoiled children whining to have things their way, and nothing less will suffice. The worst part is I know that the idea, that spark of inspiration that called them into being deserves the very best I can give it, but they are nothing more than a mirror, exposing my flaws, my weaknesses both as an artist and a person. They reveal too much. The painting and I know it.
Often these are the paintings that adorn my walls in various stages of completion. I stare at them, sometimes for years, probing them, hoping to find a fatal flaw that will keep me from having to complete it. Knowing I lack the talent and the skill to do justice the image that was presented in my mind.
The painting in question is one that I have worked on for at least three years. I say worked on, but any of the visitors to my home could challenge that. I have alternately stared at it and ignored it the past three years, wondering if and dreading when I would pull out my paints and begin again. There is a story in the painting, one that I later found myself telling in a novel but that is a different tale entirely, and it is one that is finished.
I think when I began the painting, I was still asking the question of how the story would play out. In many ways the painting is the question, and now I know the answer. And it wasn’t nearly as important as I once thought. Over the past few months I have struggled with if I should even try to finish it, or if I should just paint over it, fill the canvas with a new image, a happier image, or one that is more beautiful. In some ways it seems almost like a betrayal to revisit it now that I am living in this new life.
But every time I go near the painting, I see the time and the care I put into it. The details that were painstakingly wrought, details another will probably never see, and I think it is some of my finest work. It deserves to be finished. It deserves to be completed, and then perhaps sold to hang on another’s wall. Maybe they are asking the question, maybe they are holding out the keys to someone they love, hoping that they will reach out and take them from their hand. Maybe their answer will be different and it will be a happy ending for those people in the painting.
Or perhaps, I need to find away to give life to the truth. He never reached out to take the keys. He never deigned to lower his eyes to see they had been extended to him. And it was a good thing. Yes, the refusal hurt in that time and place, but once I learned to free myself, to look about me there was someone who didn’t need my keys. He didn’t need my answers, he just needed me.
Maybe this is the day when the painting will stop dictating its form, and will conform to my desire, when I stop being the tool for its expression and it becomes the means of mine. It’s a scary step to say that I am the one who gets to make the choice that I will determine its final form. No longer will I be able to shrug off a compliment or a critique, I will have to accept responsibility for what is before me with full knowledge that I was the one who made the decision. I will have to make myself vulnerable to every eye perceptive enough to see the truth, and this is something I have avoided for a very long time.
We all create our lives from our choices. We all sculpt and hollow out our bit of reality with every decision we make. We can claim to be victims of circumstance, and sometimes we truly are, but what we do with those circumstances is what determines how our world looks. And sometimes we have to stop hiding from ourselves long enough to create the change we so desperately need to move forward. I don’t look forward to changing the painting, covering over my mistakes is going to be hard to hide, but if I am ever going to completely step out of the shadow of that story it is time to make a new decision.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Dear Jesus, you are cordially invited . . .
I have never been one of those girls who got all mushy over weddings, but there are two weddings that are particularly noteworthy to me: my own and the one at Cana. Call me, if you want to hear more than you could possible want to know or ever will need to know about my and Ty's wedding. As for the wedding in Cana, if you don’t know the story, dig out your Bible and look up John 2:1-12. Go on, we’ll wait, because the rest of this is going to make a lot more sense, if you know the story.
Now, I don’t know how many favorite Bible stories a person is allowed to have, but put this one on my list, too. First of all, it happens at a party. You have to love that, the creator of the universe at a party! That alone gives me hope for a heaven that is way more exciting than any of my Sunday school teachers made it sound. We know that it couldn’t have been too solemn an affair because they drank up all the wine.
This is a major problem, and there are a ton of writings out there about the expected protocols and proper hospitality so I will spare you those details. Let’s just say, this was a major embarrassment to the host, and Mary tries to handle it discreetly by asking Jesus to help. Again, gallons of ink have been spilled over the significance of their conversation, and there are some good things to learn from it but let’s get to the part that makes this so cool for me – the jars.
The host had six stone jars which John explains are for Jewish purification rituals. These things were big, each one holding twenty to thirty gallons. And Jesus has the servants fill them up, to the brim. Now as modern readers, we think no big deal, the guy had stone jars to hold some water, but these jars are important.
A major part of the Jewish religion was purification. We call this washing up. The Torah records the significance of this act, and how God himself commands that his people purify themselves with water before and after certain activities. (See Leviticus and Deuteronomy for more details). We now know that the homes of the wealthy included private mikvahs, or tubs used to wash in, and pools surrounded the Temple so those who were entering could immerse themselves before doing so. Like I said, it was pretty important, but evidently this guy couldn’t afford a mikvah, so he did the best he could. He provided his family and guests with jars of fresh water so they could do what was right and proper before the Lord.
On this auspicious day something amazing happens.
I think we all get that if Jesus had not been there, there would have been no miracle. And Jesus’ very presence tells us something else about the wedding host, he desired to have relationship with Jesus. He wanted Jesus there for this joyful family event. How many times do we take time to consciously invite our Lord to the party? We are pretty good at sending up the bat signal when we are in trouble, but I think that sometimes he would like to have some fun. You know be in a relationship where he wasn’t just being used.
And when this host's desire for relationship collides with the his obedience, he receives a miracle. Because without his obedience, there would have been no stone jars, no place to put the water, and no means for the miracle. Jesus took what this man offered, a willing spirit and an invitation into another’s life and turned it into something amazing.
It was more than just wine. Jesus saved this man from humiliation and disgrace. He to care of the need before the host even realized he had one, and his obedience brought him greater honor than he could provide for himself. And I am learning that with God, our good enough is never enough for him. He always desires to do and give us more than we could imagine possible.
I think it is fitting that Jesus’ first miracle was one of almost whimsy, something that in the light of the rest of his life seems almost inconsequential. But it is such a bold declaration of who he is and what he desires to bring to our lives. He gives them wine, a symbol of God’s presence, his abundant provision, and his desire to bless us with joy through knowing him. In celebrating his nearness this tiny little act becomes so full of promise.
So my prayer for you today is that you honor the Lord with your obedience, you remember to invite him to the party, and when the wine runs out he will be there to bless you with the joy of his presence and provision.
Now, I don’t know how many favorite Bible stories a person is allowed to have, but put this one on my list, too. First of all, it happens at a party. You have to love that, the creator of the universe at a party! That alone gives me hope for a heaven that is way more exciting than any of my Sunday school teachers made it sound. We know that it couldn’t have been too solemn an affair because they drank up all the wine.
This is a major problem, and there are a ton of writings out there about the expected protocols and proper hospitality so I will spare you those details. Let’s just say, this was a major embarrassment to the host, and Mary tries to handle it discreetly by asking Jesus to help. Again, gallons of ink have been spilled over the significance of their conversation, and there are some good things to learn from it but let’s get to the part that makes this so cool for me – the jars.
The host had six stone jars which John explains are for Jewish purification rituals. These things were big, each one holding twenty to thirty gallons. And Jesus has the servants fill them up, to the brim. Now as modern readers, we think no big deal, the guy had stone jars to hold some water, but these jars are important.
A major part of the Jewish religion was purification. We call this washing up. The Torah records the significance of this act, and how God himself commands that his people purify themselves with water before and after certain activities. (See Leviticus and Deuteronomy for more details). We now know that the homes of the wealthy included private mikvahs, or tubs used to wash in, and pools surrounded the Temple so those who were entering could immerse themselves before doing so. Like I said, it was pretty important, but evidently this guy couldn’t afford a mikvah, so he did the best he could. He provided his family and guests with jars of fresh water so they could do what was right and proper before the Lord.
On this auspicious day something amazing happens.
I think we all get that if Jesus had not been there, there would have been no miracle. And Jesus’ very presence tells us something else about the wedding host, he desired to have relationship with Jesus. He wanted Jesus there for this joyful family event. How many times do we take time to consciously invite our Lord to the party? We are pretty good at sending up the bat signal when we are in trouble, but I think that sometimes he would like to have some fun. You know be in a relationship where he wasn’t just being used.
And when this host's desire for relationship collides with the his obedience, he receives a miracle. Because without his obedience, there would have been no stone jars, no place to put the water, and no means for the miracle. Jesus took what this man offered, a willing spirit and an invitation into another’s life and turned it into something amazing.
It was more than just wine. Jesus saved this man from humiliation and disgrace. He to care of the need before the host even realized he had one, and his obedience brought him greater honor than he could provide for himself. And I am learning that with God, our good enough is never enough for him. He always desires to do and give us more than we could imagine possible.
I think it is fitting that Jesus’ first miracle was one of almost whimsy, something that in the light of the rest of his life seems almost inconsequential. But it is such a bold declaration of who he is and what he desires to bring to our lives. He gives them wine, a symbol of God’s presence, his abundant provision, and his desire to bless us with joy through knowing him. In celebrating his nearness this tiny little act becomes so full of promise.
So my prayer for you today is that you honor the Lord with your obedience, you remember to invite him to the party, and when the wine runs out he will be there to bless you with the joy of his presence and provision.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Learning to Live
Ty started a new job right after Christmas, and he is working regular hours now, as opposed to the weird hours of his previous job. I have been finding that I am a bit at loose ends. It is the first time in my adult life that I have not had a job to get up and get dressed for or a deadline looming over my head. Yet, as I sat here this morning, I found myself asking for more time. Time to get the house cleaned, time to write a few more blog posts, time to organize the kids’ lessons and time to dream.
Mostly time to dream. I tend to spend a lot of time in my head, thinking things through to their ultimate conclusion, working out problems, and just wondering about the great mysteries of life. It is one of my favorite times, pacing around the living room, speaking my thoughts out loud and letting them drift where they may. It gives me energy and keeps me awake both mentally and physically.
This past week I haven’t been able to shake this groggy feeling, like my brain is only functioning at minimum capacity, refusing to do anything beyond basic life sustaining operations. I feel like a decade of being on survival mode has left me unable to cope without some sort of crisis demanding my attention, every cell super charged with adrenaline. Now it seems as if all the big issues of my life either have been or are being addressed, all without any apparent effort by me. It is a strange lulling security that seems to be dulling my edges.
This is a strange new role I have stepped into, full time wife and mother, good but strange. I look back over my life and I place them alongside my former job titles and I wonder how the tool-and-paint-sales person, art instructor, berry farm foreman, bartender, restaurant manager, college instructor, field hand, green house worker, hay hauler, floor layer, and shelf stocker got here. I had always hoped, but I don’t think I have ever believed that it could happen.
There is a big difference in hope and belief. Hope is dandelion fluff that floats through our vision, catching the sunlight, but impossible to grab. Belief is the foundation stones of something greater than you. Solid and strong, never failing to bear you up when you need the support.
I find now that this hope has solidified, and no longer am I chasing it across a field of broken glass. It’s here and I am learning to live with it. I am trying to understand how to accept it as a reality and keep reminding myself it is real. I am not going to wake up only to find that it has all been a pretty figment of my imagination.
So I am left with the question – Now, what?
Before Ty, so many of my hopes and dreams were bound up in the idea of being in love and being loved. I planned the ways I would care for the man who was willing to share in this life I desired, and I dreamt of the days when I would no longer feel that crushing weight of being alone. It took up so much time, kept me from going mad from the harsh facts of my existence. It was a beautiful place to retreat, to hide when the world got too scary, but now I live there. I don’t need to hide in my head. It is a good and frightening feeling all at once. One that leaves me blissful and sappy while filling me with a rare dread–what shall I dream of now?
Is it possible to be still and enjoy the moments that flow one right into the next? It is so new to me, so very strange and foreign, I often find myself holding my breath as if it were an exotic bird that I dare not startle or frighten away. I tip toe around this new life, careful lest I awaken myself and not all together sure that I like this new feeling of peace. Wondering how insane is that?
My father once said ignorant people are scared of what they don’t understand and even if something is better, they will do everything in their power to destroy it or remove it. I think that is where I am. This place, this feeling, is something I don’t understand but thankfully, I don’t believe that I am ignorant. So I am going through the process, learning to accept this blessing with grace and joy. It isn’t always easy, and I don’t think we acknowledge this part of the journey enough.
In this fallen world, marked with pain and suffering, doing without and just surviving, we have forgotten how to receive. We have forgotten how to experience the good things that the Father has chosen to bless us with. We have found that it is far easier to destroy or remove the blessing before we truly allow ourselves to experience it. It just seems so out of place when measured against our past experience, so we sabotage it, we deny it, or we run from it.
So look around, what is the Father bringing into your life? Is it a blessing? A special provision of grace? Your heart’s desire? Can you embrace it, acknowledge that it may not feel right just, yet is a good thing? Embrace it, protect it, and I promise you it will be worth all the awkward moments, every new and uncomfortable feeling. He only gives good gifts.
Mostly time to dream. I tend to spend a lot of time in my head, thinking things through to their ultimate conclusion, working out problems, and just wondering about the great mysteries of life. It is one of my favorite times, pacing around the living room, speaking my thoughts out loud and letting them drift where they may. It gives me energy and keeps me awake both mentally and physically.
This past week I haven’t been able to shake this groggy feeling, like my brain is only functioning at minimum capacity, refusing to do anything beyond basic life sustaining operations. I feel like a decade of being on survival mode has left me unable to cope without some sort of crisis demanding my attention, every cell super charged with adrenaline. Now it seems as if all the big issues of my life either have been or are being addressed, all without any apparent effort by me. It is a strange lulling security that seems to be dulling my edges.
This is a strange new role I have stepped into, full time wife and mother, good but strange. I look back over my life and I place them alongside my former job titles and I wonder how the tool-and-paint-sales person, art instructor, berry farm foreman, bartender, restaurant manager, college instructor, field hand, green house worker, hay hauler, floor layer, and shelf stocker got here. I had always hoped, but I don’t think I have ever believed that it could happen.
There is a big difference in hope and belief. Hope is dandelion fluff that floats through our vision, catching the sunlight, but impossible to grab. Belief is the foundation stones of something greater than you. Solid and strong, never failing to bear you up when you need the support.
I find now that this hope has solidified, and no longer am I chasing it across a field of broken glass. It’s here and I am learning to live with it. I am trying to understand how to accept it as a reality and keep reminding myself it is real. I am not going to wake up only to find that it has all been a pretty figment of my imagination.
So I am left with the question – Now, what?
Before Ty, so many of my hopes and dreams were bound up in the idea of being in love and being loved. I planned the ways I would care for the man who was willing to share in this life I desired, and I dreamt of the days when I would no longer feel that crushing weight of being alone. It took up so much time, kept me from going mad from the harsh facts of my existence. It was a beautiful place to retreat, to hide when the world got too scary, but now I live there. I don’t need to hide in my head. It is a good and frightening feeling all at once. One that leaves me blissful and sappy while filling me with a rare dread–what shall I dream of now?
Is it possible to be still and enjoy the moments that flow one right into the next? It is so new to me, so very strange and foreign, I often find myself holding my breath as if it were an exotic bird that I dare not startle or frighten away. I tip toe around this new life, careful lest I awaken myself and not all together sure that I like this new feeling of peace. Wondering how insane is that?
My father once said ignorant people are scared of what they don’t understand and even if something is better, they will do everything in their power to destroy it or remove it. I think that is where I am. This place, this feeling, is something I don’t understand but thankfully, I don’t believe that I am ignorant. So I am going through the process, learning to accept this blessing with grace and joy. It isn’t always easy, and I don’t think we acknowledge this part of the journey enough.
In this fallen world, marked with pain and suffering, doing without and just surviving, we have forgotten how to receive. We have forgotten how to experience the good things that the Father has chosen to bless us with. We have found that it is far easier to destroy or remove the blessing before we truly allow ourselves to experience it. It just seems so out of place when measured against our past experience, so we sabotage it, we deny it, or we run from it.
So look around, what is the Father bringing into your life? Is it a blessing? A special provision of grace? Your heart’s desire? Can you embrace it, acknowledge that it may not feel right just, yet is a good thing? Embrace it, protect it, and I promise you it will be worth all the awkward moments, every new and uncomfortable feeling. He only gives good gifts.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Don’t Flinch – Part 3
Of all the parts of this “mini-series,” this has been the hardest to put into words. There is a delicate balance that must be struck and requires a certain sensitivity of one who wishes to implement what I am about to say. It is difficult to share what I have learned without sounding arrogant or condescending. So I ask for your grace as I share. Please bear in mind that I am only submitting what I have learned from experience, both as someone who has been judged harshly and as someone who has judged others harshly.
When we take the title Christian, or Christ Follower, we are shouldering a tremendous responsibility. It is a declaration that as we walk through this world, we are to be a revelation of the Lord who gave his life on our behalf. We are to be an example of his grace and love to a world that is suffering the effects of sin, sometimes as willing participants and sometimes as another faceless victim. How we respond to those who are dealing with the effects of sin in their lives may be the only clue they have as to how God responds to them. It is our duty and obligation to fulfill this role with integrity and compassion.
Unfortunately, many of us fail to meet this standard. We act as if God’s holiness is in danger of being contaminated by a sinful world. We flinch as we hear the stories, we draw back in fear when we see the effects, and shun those who need his touch the most. I often speculated what could lead us into such damning behavior – are we afraid another’s sin will pollute us? Are we worried that God is unable to clean us up again if we get a spot or two on us? Do we think that he won’t love us if he found out we spent the day with a divorcee, an addict, a liar, a gossip, or worse?
Now, I have heard all the excuses. God doesn’t want us to associate with sinners. What does light have to do with the darkness? Evil company corrupts. Tolerance is the same as approval. You don’t want to be led astray. And I am not denying the validity of any of these arguments, but when they are not held in tension with the truth that we are the light of the world, we are the ones responsible for reaching out to those God loves and values as much as he loves and values us.
Don’t flinch, means that we are able to live our lives with a confidence that God is greater than any evil we may encounter. It means that instead of being appalled at a behavior or action we focus on the person, we see the need they have in their life, and we respond according to the strength and power of the one we serve. It means that we recognize the inherent worth the other person has as God's creation, and we demonstrate his desire to redeem any and every thing they may have ever done or endured.
When we flinch, we are telling the world that God is flinching, too. We are saying that God is not big enough or doesn't love them enough to reach out to them or push aside anything that separates them from him. We are telling them that their sin is so great, all hope for redemption has been lost. We are misrepresenting this God we claim to serve and have the utmost faith in, and I hope to never be held accountable for that action.
When I don’t flinch, I can hold the hand of one who is in pain. I am giving them permission to ask the questions, to seek God, and to hopefully, experience his love through me. When I don’t flinch, I am saying God is strong enough to deal with their issues, unafraid of their doubt or anger. I am declaring that he loves them enough to endure anything to be near them, including death and he has already done so. When I don’t flinch, I am saying that I am not naïve enough to think I am better than them, that I have been there and he was good enough to save me. I am giving them the hope that he may be big enough to save them.
When I don’t flinch, I am modeling the behavior of my Lord, who was not surprised that the Woman at the Well was living in sin. I am saying that he knows, he always knew and he still desires to share living water with all who are willing to sit at the edge of the well with him.
When we take the title Christian, or Christ Follower, we are shouldering a tremendous responsibility. It is a declaration that as we walk through this world, we are to be a revelation of the Lord who gave his life on our behalf. We are to be an example of his grace and love to a world that is suffering the effects of sin, sometimes as willing participants and sometimes as another faceless victim. How we respond to those who are dealing with the effects of sin in their lives may be the only clue they have as to how God responds to them. It is our duty and obligation to fulfill this role with integrity and compassion.
Unfortunately, many of us fail to meet this standard. We act as if God’s holiness is in danger of being contaminated by a sinful world. We flinch as we hear the stories, we draw back in fear when we see the effects, and shun those who need his touch the most. I often speculated what could lead us into such damning behavior – are we afraid another’s sin will pollute us? Are we worried that God is unable to clean us up again if we get a spot or two on us? Do we think that he won’t love us if he found out we spent the day with a divorcee, an addict, a liar, a gossip, or worse?
Now, I have heard all the excuses. God doesn’t want us to associate with sinners. What does light have to do with the darkness? Evil company corrupts. Tolerance is the same as approval. You don’t want to be led astray. And I am not denying the validity of any of these arguments, but when they are not held in tension with the truth that we are the light of the world, we are the ones responsible for reaching out to those God loves and values as much as he loves and values us.
Don’t flinch, means that we are able to live our lives with a confidence that God is greater than any evil we may encounter. It means that instead of being appalled at a behavior or action we focus on the person, we see the need they have in their life, and we respond according to the strength and power of the one we serve. It means that we recognize the inherent worth the other person has as God's creation, and we demonstrate his desire to redeem any and every thing they may have ever done or endured.
When we flinch, we are telling the world that God is flinching, too. We are saying that God is not big enough or doesn't love them enough to reach out to them or push aside anything that separates them from him. We are telling them that their sin is so great, all hope for redemption has been lost. We are misrepresenting this God we claim to serve and have the utmost faith in, and I hope to never be held accountable for that action.
When I don’t flinch, I can hold the hand of one who is in pain. I am giving them permission to ask the questions, to seek God, and to hopefully, experience his love through me. When I don’t flinch, I am saying God is strong enough to deal with their issues, unafraid of their doubt or anger. I am declaring that he loves them enough to endure anything to be near them, including death and he has already done so. When I don’t flinch, I am saying that I am not naïve enough to think I am better than them, that I have been there and he was good enough to save me. I am giving them the hope that he may be big enough to save them.
When I don’t flinch, I am modeling the behavior of my Lord, who was not surprised that the Woman at the Well was living in sin. I am saying that he knows, he always knew and he still desires to share living water with all who are willing to sit at the edge of the well with him.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Don’t Flinch – Part 2
In the last post I retold the story of the Woman at the Well from my perspective. As I said, I love this story because I know it all too well.
Once upon a time, I was well versed in the faith of my family and culture. I knew the proper forms of worship, the hope of the return of the Messiah, and I thought I knew all the right Bible answers. But once upon a time, I got married to a man who renounced his faith shortly after the ceremony and our marriage crumbled into a game of survivor. One I had to win if I was going to save my children and myself. I got out and tried to make a life for me and my girls, but it was a rough go.
Many people could not grasp how a good Christian girl could get a divorce or how I could wind up married to such a man that would make divorce the only option. I must not have prayed enough or I wasn’t submissive enough. There was sin in my life or I didn’t have enough faith. Not many were brave enough to speak these words aloud, but they didn’t have to. It was there in their eyes, in their offers to pray with me, and in the quiet way they would ignore the ugly facts of my existence.
I learned you don’t go to the well in the morning. Everyone was there ready with that pitying but condemning look. The whispers were low, but not low enough. So I learned to avoid the crowds, draw into myself, take comfort where I could find it, even in a few relationships that were less than holy.
When I would meet a new Christian, someone who did not know my story, I learned to tell it with a note of defiance and an unspoken dare to condemn if they must, but get it over with. I learned to accept the fact I was too far gone to be of any use to God or his people. Like the Samaritan woman I had too many strikes against me.
Worship was hard, my faith seemed as stagnant and dead as the water in that seep of a well but it was all I had. So I learned to make do. Fake it. Act like it was enough, all the while I was dying.
I hated the Holy Flinch, that involuntary reaction that good Christian people have when they are in the presence of sinners. The one we are taught is a gauge of our holiness. Oh, we are taught to hate the sin but love the sinner, but too often we fail to recognize there is no sin separate apart from the person. So often the sin has become the definition of who they are – as in, “Oh, you mean the divorced woman who sits in the back at church.” We begin to shy away from that person, as if their sin was going to rub off on us, like God wouldn’t like it if we came home smelling of divorce. Our kindness is marked with that boundary of “I will give you this, but don’t come any closer.” In the end, that type of kindness is crippling to the receiver.
My perception of God began to shift over time. I mean, if his people flinched then surely he flinched. And if he flinched, it had to mean one of two things, my sin was that great or he was that small. Either way, it meant there was no hope for me. I was lost, endlessly and miserably lost, and there was not a God who loved me enough or was great enough to save me from my reality. My façade was crumbling and my faith was a tattered rag too full of holes and too worn to be warm in the coldness of life.
But then came the day, when I went to the well and stared into its depths and wondered why even bother to lower the bucket. I would just be thirsty again, why prolong the inevitable? So I sat waiting my demise, wondering how long it would take to kill off those last vestiges of faith, and he showed up. I didn’t believe him at first. My ability to hope, to dream of great things for myself and my girls was dead, but somewhere in the deepest part of who I was I knew that when the Messiah came he would explain everything. And when he sat beside me on the edge of that well, that is exactly what he did.
He explained how there is plan and purpose for us all. He told me how there is not one moment of my heartache and pain that would be wasted. He told me he was big enough and great enough to redeem it all to his glory. He said his holiness could never be sullied by my sin and shame. He shared how his heart’s desire was to resurrect all this world had killed within me, and called me back to life. He shared a drink with a disreputable woman who had given up hope, until he saw me and didn’t flinch.
Once upon a time, I was well versed in the faith of my family and culture. I knew the proper forms of worship, the hope of the return of the Messiah, and I thought I knew all the right Bible answers. But once upon a time, I got married to a man who renounced his faith shortly after the ceremony and our marriage crumbled into a game of survivor. One I had to win if I was going to save my children and myself. I got out and tried to make a life for me and my girls, but it was a rough go.
Many people could not grasp how a good Christian girl could get a divorce or how I could wind up married to such a man that would make divorce the only option. I must not have prayed enough or I wasn’t submissive enough. There was sin in my life or I didn’t have enough faith. Not many were brave enough to speak these words aloud, but they didn’t have to. It was there in their eyes, in their offers to pray with me, and in the quiet way they would ignore the ugly facts of my existence.
I learned you don’t go to the well in the morning. Everyone was there ready with that pitying but condemning look. The whispers were low, but not low enough. So I learned to avoid the crowds, draw into myself, take comfort where I could find it, even in a few relationships that were less than holy.
When I would meet a new Christian, someone who did not know my story, I learned to tell it with a note of defiance and an unspoken dare to condemn if they must, but get it over with. I learned to accept the fact I was too far gone to be of any use to God or his people. Like the Samaritan woman I had too many strikes against me.
Worship was hard, my faith seemed as stagnant and dead as the water in that seep of a well but it was all I had. So I learned to make do. Fake it. Act like it was enough, all the while I was dying.
I hated the Holy Flinch, that involuntary reaction that good Christian people have when they are in the presence of sinners. The one we are taught is a gauge of our holiness. Oh, we are taught to hate the sin but love the sinner, but too often we fail to recognize there is no sin separate apart from the person. So often the sin has become the definition of who they are – as in, “Oh, you mean the divorced woman who sits in the back at church.” We begin to shy away from that person, as if their sin was going to rub off on us, like God wouldn’t like it if we came home smelling of divorce. Our kindness is marked with that boundary of “I will give you this, but don’t come any closer.” In the end, that type of kindness is crippling to the receiver.
My perception of God began to shift over time. I mean, if his people flinched then surely he flinched. And if he flinched, it had to mean one of two things, my sin was that great or he was that small. Either way, it meant there was no hope for me. I was lost, endlessly and miserably lost, and there was not a God who loved me enough or was great enough to save me from my reality. My façade was crumbling and my faith was a tattered rag too full of holes and too worn to be warm in the coldness of life.
But then came the day, when I went to the well and stared into its depths and wondered why even bother to lower the bucket. I would just be thirsty again, why prolong the inevitable? So I sat waiting my demise, wondering how long it would take to kill off those last vestiges of faith, and he showed up. I didn’t believe him at first. My ability to hope, to dream of great things for myself and my girls was dead, but somewhere in the deepest part of who I was I knew that when the Messiah came he would explain everything. And when he sat beside me on the edge of that well, that is exactly what he did.
He explained how there is plan and purpose for us all. He told me how there is not one moment of my heartache and pain that would be wasted. He told me he was big enough and great enough to redeem it all to his glory. He said his holiness could never be sullied by my sin and shame. He shared how his heart’s desire was to resurrect all this world had killed within me, and called me back to life. He shared a drink with a disreputable woman who had given up hope, until he saw me and didn’t flinch.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Don’t Flinch – Part 1
There is a story I love about Jesus, maybe it is because I identify with the woman he is talking to, all too well. As I read his words to her, and listen to her responses I can hear my voice forming the words, the sense of desperation and the sheer lack of hope.
The story is found in John 4:1-42. Jesus is traveling with his disciples but he sends them away for awhile, maybe so he could spend a little time alone with a woman they just wouldn’t get. Maybe it was so they wouldn’t have the chance to scare her off, or make another one of their blunders in defense of their Lord. Whatever the reason, he found her there alone at the well in the middle of the afternoon, and what he requires of her is astounding. "Give me a drink." (John 4:7)
I can see the disdain in her face as she responds, hear the unspoken accusations in her words. What are you going to say to me? What could you possible say that a hundred others haven’t already accused me of? You have no right to say one word to a woman such as I. Instead, she merely points out the obvious, you are a Jew and I am a Samaritan, why are you even speaking to me?
Jesus doesn’t flinch. I can almost see him smile as he tells her that if she had a clue, she would ask him to give her living water. It’s a set up, she can see it but can’t resist the chance to put this great man in his place. She tells him, you don’t even have a bucket or a rope, and yet you have the audacity to offer me something greater than the water in this well. I can almost hear the snort.
Living water, a precious commodity in those days. Water that had not been allowed to set or stagnate. It was required that one wash in living water before entering into worship, and not always available in that arid land. Even the water in the well was not living water, the well was a seep. Water from the surrounding land filtered through the rock and slowly collected there, stagnating and stinking because it had no fresh source. Water unfit for use in purification or cleansing, but all that could be had at this place.
Jesus continues, redirecting her vision back to the well, showing her something she has not seen or considered before. With gentle authority, he affirms what she has said and then challenges her to hope, but her heart has been broken. She has been kicked around by society, judged by the harshest critics. Why else would she avoid the other women who came to the well in the cool of the morning? The part of her that knows how to dream, how to hope, has been broken and Jesus is doing something amazing – He is calling it back to life.
“Go and get your husband.” He commands, and she laughs, with bitterness I am sure. “I have no husband.” You can almost hear the thought, once more I am disqualified, not good enough to receive a blessing. Her anger and wounded pride, justified yet again.
But Jesus still doesn’t flinch. “I know,” he says. “And I know all about who you are, what you have done, but I have still made the offer. I still want to share this drink with you!”
I can almost hear the mental scurrying as she seeks a place to hide within herself. She has to deflect, avoid the intimacy of the moment, kindness is too much. So she asks an inane theological question, something safe, but Jesus refuses to be distracted. He answers but his answer is far more pointed than she could have anticipated, "God is seeking those who will worship in Spirit and in Truth." He is looking for people who can acknowledge that there is sin, some sins they have chosen and some to which they have been a victim. But, God still desire to know them.
Listen close, I can almost hear the hope creeping into her voice, “When the Messiah comes, he will explain everything.” I will know why my life has been what it has, the thought pierces through her words. I will understand why I have had to endure what I have endured. It will all be worth it when he comes.
And Jesus, once again smiles, "I am he!" What a revelation! What a reason to grasp the hope he has offered! It is not an abstract idea. It is not something locked in the great, unknown future. It is now, and she has witnessed it.
Tune in next time – when I tell the story of when I went to the well.
The story is found in John 4:1-42. Jesus is traveling with his disciples but he sends them away for awhile, maybe so he could spend a little time alone with a woman they just wouldn’t get. Maybe it was so they wouldn’t have the chance to scare her off, or make another one of their blunders in defense of their Lord. Whatever the reason, he found her there alone at the well in the middle of the afternoon, and what he requires of her is astounding. "Give me a drink." (John 4:7)
I can see the disdain in her face as she responds, hear the unspoken accusations in her words. What are you going to say to me? What could you possible say that a hundred others haven’t already accused me of? You have no right to say one word to a woman such as I. Instead, she merely points out the obvious, you are a Jew and I am a Samaritan, why are you even speaking to me?
Jesus doesn’t flinch. I can almost see him smile as he tells her that if she had a clue, she would ask him to give her living water. It’s a set up, she can see it but can’t resist the chance to put this great man in his place. She tells him, you don’t even have a bucket or a rope, and yet you have the audacity to offer me something greater than the water in this well. I can almost hear the snort.
Living water, a precious commodity in those days. Water that had not been allowed to set or stagnate. It was required that one wash in living water before entering into worship, and not always available in that arid land. Even the water in the well was not living water, the well was a seep. Water from the surrounding land filtered through the rock and slowly collected there, stagnating and stinking because it had no fresh source. Water unfit for use in purification or cleansing, but all that could be had at this place.
Jesus continues, redirecting her vision back to the well, showing her something she has not seen or considered before. With gentle authority, he affirms what she has said and then challenges her to hope, but her heart has been broken. She has been kicked around by society, judged by the harshest critics. Why else would she avoid the other women who came to the well in the cool of the morning? The part of her that knows how to dream, how to hope, has been broken and Jesus is doing something amazing – He is calling it back to life.
“Go and get your husband.” He commands, and she laughs, with bitterness I am sure. “I have no husband.” You can almost hear the thought, once more I am disqualified, not good enough to receive a blessing. Her anger and wounded pride, justified yet again.
But Jesus still doesn’t flinch. “I know,” he says. “And I know all about who you are, what you have done, but I have still made the offer. I still want to share this drink with you!”
I can almost hear the mental scurrying as she seeks a place to hide within herself. She has to deflect, avoid the intimacy of the moment, kindness is too much. So she asks an inane theological question, something safe, but Jesus refuses to be distracted. He answers but his answer is far more pointed than she could have anticipated, "God is seeking those who will worship in Spirit and in Truth." He is looking for people who can acknowledge that there is sin, some sins they have chosen and some to which they have been a victim. But, God still desire to know them.
Listen close, I can almost hear the hope creeping into her voice, “When the Messiah comes, he will explain everything.” I will know why my life has been what it has, the thought pierces through her words. I will understand why I have had to endure what I have endured. It will all be worth it when he comes.
And Jesus, once again smiles, "I am he!" What a revelation! What a reason to grasp the hope he has offered! It is not an abstract idea. It is not something locked in the great, unknown future. It is now, and she has witnessed it.
Tune in next time – when I tell the story of when I went to the well.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I'm still surprised after all these years
Recently I have experienced a life event associated with work. The event requires me to exercise my faith in God's ability to provided. This past Sunday our pastor presented 2 excellent sermons on faith: "What Faith Knows" based on Mark 4:35-41 and "Faith by Example" from Luke 22:31-34. These sermons were exactly what I needed at the moment.
I don't know why I'm surprised that God would speak through someone to provide words of comfort and encouragement. I find I'm still surprised that God still speaks to me personally even after hearing so many beneficial sermons. I'm sure others experience this surprise.
It is not surprising that God cares for each and every believer. This is a characteristic of His being and nature. His word clear states God is concerned about our well-being. A classic example is Matthew 6:25-34. What about God's provision for His people in the wilderness? Think about it for at least a second: sandals that don't wear out, enough food to feed all the people provided each morning, and water from a rock.
I hope I never get to where I'm not surprised how God takes care of us. I think that would be stop me from being thankful and appreciative of God's care.
Author's note: In case your interested in the major points of the 2 sermons. The sermon titles and point titles are from the pastor. The wording is from my notes.
What Faith Knows Mark 4:35-41
I don't know why I'm surprised that God would speak through someone to provide words of comfort and encouragement. I find I'm still surprised that God still speaks to me personally even after hearing so many beneficial sermons. I'm sure others experience this surprise.
It is not surprising that God cares for each and every believer. This is a characteristic of His being and nature. His word clear states God is concerned about our well-being. A classic example is Matthew 6:25-34. What about God's provision for His people in the wilderness? Think about it for at least a second: sandals that don't wear out, enough food to feed all the people provided each morning, and water from a rock.
I hope I never get to where I'm not surprised how God takes care of us. I think that would be stop me from being thankful and appreciative of God's care.
Author's note: In case your interested in the major points of the 2 sermons. The sermon titles and point titles are from the pastor. The wording is from my notes.
What Faith Knows Mark 4:35-41
- God cares - God cares about your daily "stuff"
- God can - Deep faith knows God can handle "it"
- God controls - Faith knows God is in control even if we don't
- Pray for another's faith - Jesus prayed for Peter
- Encourage another's faith - Jesus encouraged Peter to strength others
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Steps, Leaping, and Surrender
In my adult life I have had three significant love relationships. The first one was to the man I married, a man I dated, and the man to whom I will be married in forty days. I haven’t always been wise when it comes to matters of the heart. It would be easy to blame society, television, Walt Disney, or a million other factors. The truth is I was pretty mixed up when it came to the who to the whole love thing, but I didn’t know it and as I talk to other girls who hope to one day find love I see that it isn’t just me that had a problem sorting all this out.
We get a lot of mixed signals when it comes to romance. Most of us come from broken homes, so we believe that love is something that goes away and can’t be trusted. Many of us see the dysfunctional relationships portrayed in popular media and we think that love can be had in rapid succession with a number of partners. We are told that love is a commitment by so many people in the church. Walt Disney says love is forever and once we find it we are guaranteed a happily ever after.
We don’t know if love is something we pursue or finds us. We can’t figure out if it is something that we feel or decide. We just don’t know if we are destined to be the lucky ones or if love is a matter of intense effort. It is not easy to sift through all the information out there about this phenomenon.
As the date draws closer to my wedding, I am finding myself reflecting on the past. The events that shaped my perceptions, recognizing some of my mistakes, and things that I have endured in order to understand what makes this relationship so different from the last ones. Yes, definitely the man is different, but I am different too.
I was twenty years old when I was married the first time. I knew I wanted a husband and a family so I got married to the first man who seemed to fit my check list. I took all the proper steps in choosing this man. He looked good on paper, and I believed that as long as I kept following the formulas, did things by the book, we would be able to build a marriage that would be okay. There was no passion for him, and as it turned out, he had none for me. We were both looking of partners who fit certain criteria and we thought we had found them. It was not long before it was obvious that our marriage was based on misinformation and more than a few lies, but I still believed that if I took all the proper steps I could make it better. I told myself that I loved him, and if I just kept trying everything would work out.
I had every relationship book in print, worked the formula, and went through counseling all in hopes that I would find the right set of steps to our save us from destruction. The thing is love is a bit of a dance, but if it is really love, your partner doesn’t hate you if you step on their toes from time to time. In the end, I was unable to keep up, do the right things, or be the right person to keep him happy and all I was doing was killing myself trying to make it work. It wasn’t easy to admit that the marriage failed, but looking back, I realize that my biggest mistake happened when I believed that love could be a formula to be mastered.
The next relationship was comedy or tragedy of mistakes, depending on your point of view. I leapt into love, blindly, stupidly. For the first time I knew what it was to want someone in my life, not just try to have someone because it is expected. There was fire and passion, but it was fanned by the flames of uncertainty and doubt. The constant strain of whether he was going to be there for me or not, rearranging my life so that I would be acceptable and appealing to him, all in the hopes that he would one day wake up and realize he loved me as much as I did him. I held on through so much chaos and confusion thinking my leap of faith would be enough to sustain us. In the end, it takes two to believe for great things and both have to leap together. The last time I leapt, he stood firmly on the edge of that abyss and watched me fall, and I realized that I could never do that again.
I was a little lost for awhile after that. I didn’t know what to do. Love wasn’t working for me or I couldn’t make it work for me. I had tried taking the steps. I had made the leaps, what else could I do? It seemed so out of my hands, so far beyond anything I could possibly do that I felt hopeless. I didn’t like being out of control. I didn’t like feeling like I could do nothing to bring about the one thing that I have wanted since the first time I saw Cinderella, but I was helpless.
Then I met Ty, and I was too weary to take the steps. I was too scared to make another leap, but he never asked me to. Instead, he sat there one night and told me about the things in his heart, his hopes, his fears, and why I belonged in his life. He told me about how who I was, not what I did, fascinated and captivated him. There was no formula to master or ability to prove, and I found myself confronted by something so completely new, it scared me to death. He loved me, and all I had to do was surrender to it. I had to be okay with just being. I had to trust him, and it is hard not do with those beseeching blue eyes promising so much if you do. I had to turn loose of all my attempts to control the situation, and surrender to this man.
For the first time, I understood why so many people can’t figure Christianity out, why a God who offers grace is so difficult to understand and accept. When you spend your whole life thinking that love is something you have to perform to receive, being confronted by a love that demands only your presence is overwhelming. I almost walked away from Ty. He seemed too good to be true, but I decided I could be okay with this new type of love, the kind where I am beautiful even when my hairs a mess and my feet are covered in dirt from the garden.
I have to believe that God is like that. That he sees our dirty feet and smiles every time we turn our faces towards him, because its not about the steps we take or the leaps we attempt. It is about realizing he loves us and trusting his love enough to surrender to him.
We get a lot of mixed signals when it comes to romance. Most of us come from broken homes, so we believe that love is something that goes away and can’t be trusted. Many of us see the dysfunctional relationships portrayed in popular media and we think that love can be had in rapid succession with a number of partners. We are told that love is a commitment by so many people in the church. Walt Disney says love is forever and once we find it we are guaranteed a happily ever after.
We don’t know if love is something we pursue or finds us. We can’t figure out if it is something that we feel or decide. We just don’t know if we are destined to be the lucky ones or if love is a matter of intense effort. It is not easy to sift through all the information out there about this phenomenon.
As the date draws closer to my wedding, I am finding myself reflecting on the past. The events that shaped my perceptions, recognizing some of my mistakes, and things that I have endured in order to understand what makes this relationship so different from the last ones. Yes, definitely the man is different, but I am different too.
I was twenty years old when I was married the first time. I knew I wanted a husband and a family so I got married to the first man who seemed to fit my check list. I took all the proper steps in choosing this man. He looked good on paper, and I believed that as long as I kept following the formulas, did things by the book, we would be able to build a marriage that would be okay. There was no passion for him, and as it turned out, he had none for me. We were both looking of partners who fit certain criteria and we thought we had found them. It was not long before it was obvious that our marriage was based on misinformation and more than a few lies, but I still believed that if I took all the proper steps I could make it better. I told myself that I loved him, and if I just kept trying everything would work out.
I had every relationship book in print, worked the formula, and went through counseling all in hopes that I would find the right set of steps to our save us from destruction. The thing is love is a bit of a dance, but if it is really love, your partner doesn’t hate you if you step on their toes from time to time. In the end, I was unable to keep up, do the right things, or be the right person to keep him happy and all I was doing was killing myself trying to make it work. It wasn’t easy to admit that the marriage failed, but looking back, I realize that my biggest mistake happened when I believed that love could be a formula to be mastered.
The next relationship was comedy or tragedy of mistakes, depending on your point of view. I leapt into love, blindly, stupidly. For the first time I knew what it was to want someone in my life, not just try to have someone because it is expected. There was fire and passion, but it was fanned by the flames of uncertainty and doubt. The constant strain of whether he was going to be there for me or not, rearranging my life so that I would be acceptable and appealing to him, all in the hopes that he would one day wake up and realize he loved me as much as I did him. I held on through so much chaos and confusion thinking my leap of faith would be enough to sustain us. In the end, it takes two to believe for great things and both have to leap together. The last time I leapt, he stood firmly on the edge of that abyss and watched me fall, and I realized that I could never do that again.
I was a little lost for awhile after that. I didn’t know what to do. Love wasn’t working for me or I couldn’t make it work for me. I had tried taking the steps. I had made the leaps, what else could I do? It seemed so out of my hands, so far beyond anything I could possibly do that I felt hopeless. I didn’t like being out of control. I didn’t like feeling like I could do nothing to bring about the one thing that I have wanted since the first time I saw Cinderella, but I was helpless.
Then I met Ty, and I was too weary to take the steps. I was too scared to make another leap, but he never asked me to. Instead, he sat there one night and told me about the things in his heart, his hopes, his fears, and why I belonged in his life. He told me about how who I was, not what I did, fascinated and captivated him. There was no formula to master or ability to prove, and I found myself confronted by something so completely new, it scared me to death. He loved me, and all I had to do was surrender to it. I had to be okay with just being. I had to trust him, and it is hard not do with those beseeching blue eyes promising so much if you do. I had to turn loose of all my attempts to control the situation, and surrender to this man.
For the first time, I understood why so many people can’t figure Christianity out, why a God who offers grace is so difficult to understand and accept. When you spend your whole life thinking that love is something you have to perform to receive, being confronted by a love that demands only your presence is overwhelming. I almost walked away from Ty. He seemed too good to be true, but I decided I could be okay with this new type of love, the kind where I am beautiful even when my hairs a mess and my feet are covered in dirt from the garden.
I have to believe that God is like that. That he sees our dirty feet and smiles every time we turn our faces towards him, because its not about the steps we take or the leaps we attempt. It is about realizing he loves us and trusting his love enough to surrender to him.
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