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God Thoughts

God Thoughts

The Curse of Sin, It Is a Blessing

People around me have been talking about sin a lot lately, trying to identify it, working to avoid it.  What a terrible waste of time for the redeemed.  Easter beckons us to look beyond.

This is a compilation of three blog articles I wrote a couple of years ago about my belief that sin came to be because grace was God’s plan from the beginning.  

From the Foundation of the World (Blog #1)

In the beginning, after God spoke all the “LET THERE BE . . . s” and creation formed at his commands, he paused to say, “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.” (Genesis 1:26)

What if . . .

After they spoke into being the magnificent and amenable, God paused in creation and said to Jesus and to the Spirit that hovered there with them,

“Let’s talk about this before we go any further.”

With excitement in in His voice, perhaps God said, “I’d like to make man. I’d like to breathe a bit of ourselves into him so that he will be different than the animals and we can love him.”

At this point, (in the story in my head), Jesus and the Spirit nod. It would be a little more complicated and they might get a little dirt on their hands but what an intriguing idea!

Then God became pensive and He said, “But look down the road of time. If we create them this way, look at the mess they will make. Watch their path as they follow their choices and see where we will go to retrieve them.”

As the Spirit followed the path of man, He nodded his assent. Yes, He would lead them through a desert. Yes, He would visit them in their promised land. He could be there to give courage as they battled. He would happily comfort their kings and prophets in the days of their sorrow and cause them to dance in the days of their joy.

Then He looked forward a little more and He saw the place in time where God would determine that man had wandered long enough without Him. And if the Spirit has something like a heart, it stopped beating for a moment when He realized what making man would cost. With effort, He pulled his eyes away from the cross and He looked at Jesus.

Jesus was still. The breath seemed to have left his body. He had seen too. But his eyes weren’t on the cross. They were on God, the Father. He stood there for what would have, if there had been time, seemed like eternity, . . . looking . . . and seeing . . . and understanding.

Jesus nodded.

And, from the foundation of the world, He was slain.

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From the Foundation of the World (Blog #2)

My question is . . .why couldn’t God just enjoy his relationship with Adam and Eve?  Why would He tell them “Don’t eat!” when He absolutely knew that they would.  And why would He set in motion, at the foundation of the world, a chain of events that would lead to the cross?

Let me tell you what I’m thinking.

My grandmother was a formidable personality. In her house, her husband’s dog was never allowed in the living area. Her grandchildren were never allowed to use the wrong verb tense. And, her 90 year-old mother was given a glass or two of blackberry wine when she began to cause a commotion.

My mother was a free spirit. I have been told that as a teen she was lively and daring and pushed all my grandmother’s buttons just to see which flavor of frustration would pop out. Then she would shake it up and watch it spew.

It turned out that life was hard for my mother. My grandmother was always close by to help if she could. And as they aged, they became closer.  After my grandfather died, my mother began visiting my grandmother often to keep her company. She told me they were probably the best times she and her mother had spent together.

By that time, my grandmother had had a series of small strokes and had lost the ability to speak. My mother was life-tired and soul-spent and had few words to say anyway. So, they spent most evenings in silence with my mother laying her head in my grandmother’s lap.

I’m wondering if that picture holds some insight into why the plan for Jesus’ death was in place before Adam disobeyed.

Maybe the cross wasn’t just a fix for Adam’s sin. Maybe a relationship with a faultless man was never God’s “A” plan. Maybe He always wanted the relationship he could have with man after he had tried and failed at life on his own. Maybe, from the foundation of the world, God has preferred redeemed man to innocent man.

Maybe it is that God most wants us after life has chewed us up and spit us out and we are too tired to talk about ourselves . . . and all we can do is shut our mouths and lay our heads in his lap.

sitting at cross

From the Foundation of the World (Blog #3)

Every time I ponder the concept and I follow the path of my reasoning to its end, I find myself standing in the same confounding field of thought. And, every time I get to that place, I turn around and head back to the starting point thinking, “Lord, Lord, this can’t possibly be right.”

Revelation 13:8 – And all that dwell upon the earth shall worship him, whose names are not written in the book of life of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.

. . . the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.

If Jesus was slain from the foundation of the world, then God (who stands outside time anyway) knew when He created man that the crucifixion of Jesus would be the cost of man’s disobedience.

If God (who stands outside time and can see the end from the beginning) knew that man would disobey, then He set up Adam to fail when He gave him the ability to choose.

If God set up Adam to fail, and declared that Adam’s failure to obey would result in mankind’s life in sin and separation from Himself, then living in sin and separate from God must be part of God’s plan for Adam . . . for mankind . . . for me.

Oh . . . Crap! I stumble over this same spot every time I go down this path.

2 Timothy 1:9 – He has saved us and called us to a holy life–not because of anything we have done but because of his own purpose and grace. This grace was given us in Christ Jesus before the beginning of time,

I can hang onto this thought and go a little further.

. . . Grace was given us in Christ Jesus before the beginning of time.

If grace was also in God’s plan since the beginning of time then He always had a plan to forgive disobedient mankind.

If God always had a plan to forgive the disobedience of all those who choose to leave him and go their own way, then He always knew that in the end He would welcome them back into a relationship like the one He had with Adam.

If God knew that in the end, He would have what He began with, then why was everything in the middle necessary?!

And . . . now, I’m just turning around in circles.

But, here’s what I see . . .

I see the people who have come through sin to seek God on the other side. They don’t much look like Adam.

They aren’t new and pristine. They are dirty and disfigured by an ugliness that ravaged them in the darkness.

They are beat up and bent over and none of them could walk with God in a garden or anywhere else. They are too tired. Most of them can’t get off their knees.

What these guys do have is a lot more knowledge of God than Adam had.

They know God’s mercy because they have such need of it. They’ve seen God’s righteousness because He clothed their shame and nakedness with it. They appreciate God’s grace because they have nothing to give him in return. They are overwhelmed by God’s love because they can look back and see Jesus carrying their sin to the cross.

They are humble. They are grateful. And they love God more than Adam ever could have.

I always stop here and contemplate the fact that God prefers redeemed man to innocent man. This is as far as my thoughts can go without becoming slightly heretical. But they don’t stop here. They always take one more leap.

If God prefers redeemed man to innocent man . . .

If God wanted man to choose wrong so He could make him right . . .

If God wanted man to disobey so He could offer unmerited favor . . .

If God wanted man to fall into sin so He could reach down in mercy and pick him up . . .

Then, why do we, who stand in the age of grace, spend so much time trying to get back to where Adam was?

Why do we want the church to appear pristine and perfect? Why do we teach new believers to stand strong in obedience more than we teach them to seek God in weakness?

Why do we pray for wisdom and strength but not brokenness and humility? Why are our prayers for our children usually about keeping them safe from the sins and evils of the world?

And, Lord, help us! . . . Why do we still try to hide our sin from God? Why do we let shame and spiritual pride keep us from approaching his throne with sin dribbling down our chins?

Do we not know that from the foundation of the world, He has reached out to us and wiped them clean?!

CrucifixionSunset

 

 

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Disney World and “The War Room”: They Both Left Me Wanting More

When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are, anything your heart desires will come to you.

So says the first stanza of the Walt Disney Theme Song.

My 15-year-old daughter roped a few of those stars, pressed them into her eyes, blinked a couple of times at her daddy and wished for her first trip to Disney World.  That is how I came to spend the first week of October in Walt Disney’s imagination.  Let me tell you, Walt’s imagination is a grand and wonderful place to be.

It is said that Walt Disney World is the place where dreams come true, that its Kingdom is the most magical place on Earth.  Everyone may not agree, but during that week, I raised a ginormous, Mickey Mouse shaped rice krispie treat high above my head to give it my enthusiastic vote.

Walt’s Kingdom is bright and beautiful and the magic of pixie dust hangs in the air.  The muck and mess that litters life outside the Magic Kingdom has no place inside it.  Even the lids of the garbage receptacles are cleaned daily.

When we walked through the gate and Tessa saw Cinderella’s castle for the first time, the stars in her eyes lit up with a brightness to rival the fireworks we would see later that night.  It is, indeed, a fairy tale kingdom that draws the princess in every girl into a world where magic conquers all and the hero always comes to the rescue.

 

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But I have to say that I wanted to see more.

* * * * * * * * * *

Under the Magic Kingdom, there are a series of tunnels called utilidors.  They are hidden utility corridors that service the life that goes on behind the scenes of the World above.  Food is prepared in them and delivered to the vendors above.  Garbage is removed through them without being seen by the guests.  Locker rooms and cafeterias for employees are housed in the tunnels and rehearsals for the shows featured above go on there.

Everything in the park is monitored in those corridors: the sound systems, fire and child protection systems, attraction controls, audio-animatronic figures and parade preparations.

Most intriguing to me, the Magic Kingdom employees move through the park using the utilidors.  Characters in costume can travel from one park world to another without upsetting the illusions of the guests.  That means that a cowboy from Frontierland will never be seen moseying out of context through the world of Tomorrowland.

Walt Disney refused to allow anyone under 16 to enter the utilidors.  He was convinced that no child should enter an area where he/she could see two Mickey Mouses at one time or perhaps a Donald Duck without a head.  It is in those tunnels that Disney characters can sit down, prop up their aching feet and let the smiles that are ever-present in the world above fall away for awhile.

Life in the utilidors is the reality behind the dream and I wanted to see it.

* * * * * * * * *

warroom-mv-2I recently saw The War Room, the latest of the faith-based movies to play in major theaters.  The film is about the power of prayer.

Its main characters, Tony and Elizabeth, have good jobs and an upper middle-class lifestyle.  But their marriage is falling apart and their daughter is being neglected.  Elizabeth meets Miss Clara, an elderly woman who speaks frankly and teaches her the power of prayer in the fight to keep her family together.  Miss Clara shows Elizabeth a closet in her house that she had long ago emptied of clothing and plastered with scrawled prayers and scripture passages.  It is her “War Room”, the place where she goes to pray in secret.

Eventually, Elizabeth empties her closet and creates her own “War Room” where she learns to pray for her husband and her marriage.  The grace she offers Tony, has an effect on him.  He repents and prays for God’s help.  In the end, the family is reconciled.  The “War Room” no longer belongs to Elizabeth.  All three members of the family pray there together.

Best I can tell, Christian audiences love the movie.  (It is hard not to adore Miss Clara.)  In my theater, I heard “Amens” coming from all corners of the room accompanied by the laughter that flows from antics that are familiar.  (What parent has not found a stuffed bunny in their fridge at one time or another?)

But as the movie credits rolled, I wanted more than had been on the screen.

* * * * * * * * * *

There is a spiritual place that exists on a plane above this world.  Like the Magic Kingdom’s utilidors, it is hidden from the physical eye.  But every Christian has access to it.  It is the place where the Holy Spirit dwells and if we keep our spiritual eyes on it, we see Jesus.  Every work of God in our lives happens there.

You would think that it would be a place of order.  But I find it confusing and unpredictable.  From where I stand, I see very little in the spiritual world that can be explained by a blanket statement . . . including prayer.

What is prayer?

Best I can tell, it is an oration of praise and the long diatribe of a soul in pain and one word spoken in faith.  It is whispered in a pew and shouted to a group, screamed to the Heavens and laughed on the wind.  It is sung in our hearts and cried from our knees.

Does God answer prayer?

He speaks.  And He remains quiet.

Does a prayer of faith spoken in Jesus’s name produce a response from God?  Does He heal our sickness, increase our finances or put our broken homes back together?

It seems to me that He does . . . except for when He doesn’t.

God can not be scripted.

My dear friend prayed when her marriage fell apart.  She prayed and she cried and then she prayed again.  God came to her with comfort but her marriage ended in divorce.

My mother-in-law and father-in-law prayed for many years with strong and sincere faith that their youngest son be healed of diabetes.  He died at the age of 38 from diabetes related health issues leaving a wife and three young children.

A former pastor and his wife, one of my first mentors, had a daughter who was born deaf.  When she was an infant, they gathered a group of church members to pray for special wisdom and strength to rear her.  He gave her healing instead . . .  healing for which they had not prayed.

Prayer is powerful.  But it isn’t a series of buttons we punch to elicit the response we want from God.

That being said, The War Room has a good message.  It gives Christians hope.  As we watch God reunite a broken family, we realize that our broken pieces can also be put back together.

Still, it left me yearning for more.  His children have access to so much more than a good message.

In that hidden spiritual place above our world, the one where Christians sit down at the feet of Jesus, prop up their aching feet and let the smiles that mask the pain of this world fall away, there is His presence.  In that place, God picks up the mess of our failures and redeems them for something good.  In that place, He gives Himself to widows as a husband and to children as a father.  In that place, He glorifies Himself in ways greater than we can image.  

Sometimes God gives us what we pray for and sometimes He does not.  But always, in that spiritual place, His arms are around us . . . to protect us . . . or wipe the tears from our eyes . . . or give us a “You did real good!” pat on the butt . . .  or push us to take our next steps forward in our walk with Him.

That is what I want.  I want to be reminded of the place where His arms are.

 

 

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A few years ago, on another blog site, I wrote a series of posts titled, “When I Get To Heaven . . . “.  Some of them were funny.  Some of them were not.

(Well, . . . okay . . . so all of them were funny.  But some of them were also thoughtful.)

They began with the words, “When I get to Heaven, I’m going to tell Jesus “Thank You”.  I’m going to dance with the Holy Spirit. And then, after sitting in God’s lap for about a thousand years, I am going to . . . ”  Then each of them went on to talk about the things I want to do when I get to Heaven.

Not long after eight sheep fled our field, crawled under our fence, entered our yard and ate a bed of my newly planted impatiens, I announced that when I get to Heaven, I will take Noah’s wife out for lunch to compare her animal stories with mine.  What did SHE do when her husband’s bird pooped down her curtains?  How did she respond when the pig joined HER family for supper?

During Spring cleaning that year, I stated that when we move into our heavenly mansion, I am sending a truckload of the useless crap my husband has collected over the years down south to a bottomless pit at the corner of Fire and Brimstone Streets.

In my favorite of the “When I Get to Heaven . . . ” blog posts, I wrote that someday I will stand on the balcony of Heaven’s Art Gallery and watch Jesus, the original artist and creator, paint an Autumn sunset.  (I re-posted that piece on this website.  You can read it here.)

In reality, I often wonder what Heaven will be like.

In The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis writes a picture of Heaven.  Lewis’s Heaven is not a pristine, sterilized place with residents who are continually at choir practice.  It is a place of beautiful intensity where blue is bluer and mountains are bigger and, “Every flower and blade of grass looks as if it means more.”  The voice of its Jesus character draws its people further up and further in, declaring, “The dream has ended: this is the morning.”  Lewis’s Heaven calls its people to adventure because, “One can’t feel afraid, even if one wants to”.

One can’t feel afraid, even if one wants to.

ONE CAN’T FEEL AFRAID, EVEN IF ONE WANTS TO!

When I get to Heaven, I’m going to tell Jesus “Thank You”.  I’m going to dance with the Holy Spirit. And then, after sitting in God’s lap for about a thousand years, I am going to get to know the me who can’t feel afraid, even if I want to.

What would it be like to have no fear?  No fear of pain?  No fear of failure?  No fear of rejection?

No fear of letting you see me?

While we were in our mothers’ wombs, God formed our bodies.  He molded each of our inward organs and gave our hearts a beat.  He counted the hairs as he placed them on our heads.  He sculpted each of our fingers, placing a thumb in our mouths to comfort us even before we were born.

I believe that, with the same painstaking gentleness, He also formed our souls.

Before I saw the light of day, I was made to delight in the color of the sky.  Before I drew a breath, I was destined to savor a storm.  With his brow furrowed and his tongue caught between his teeth in an expression of concentration, God sculpted the essences of you and me.  (This picture is circa my imagination.  Don’t look for it in your Sunday School literature.)

But, then, we were born into a fallen world.  Our feet landed on a soil that could not nourish us.  In the battle between the innocence of our young souls and the thorns that grow wild here, the thorns drew first blood.  Before we could get a good look at the souls God worked so diligently to create, we had built walls to hide and protect them.

When I get to Heaven, my wall will fall.  And so will yours.  Don’t you wonder what will be behind them?

When we live in a place where we can not be hurt, a place where we can’t feel afraid, even if we want to, what will we do that we have never done before?

You already know that I am going to dance.  I’m not talking about your grandmother’s dancing.  I’m gonna dance like this.

I might ride a horse with my husband . . . really, really fast . . . and I, who am allergic to several kinds of animals, will not sneeze on the horse . . . and the horse, which will smell like Heaven’s wildflowers, will not drool on me.

If I have wings, I am going to fly.  If I have a voice, I am going to sing.  If I have a purse, I am going to stuff it with chocolate.

When we live in a place where we can not be hurt, what will we see that we have never seen before?

According to several passages of scripture, God will give us a new name in Heaven.  I know diddly squat about end-time prophesy.  But I do know Jewish culture.  In Judaism, a name is not a sequence of letters which refers to a person.  It is a definition of the individual – a description of his personality and an interpretation of his traits.  For the Jews who wrote the prophesy in the Old and New Testaments, a name would have been a word that encompasses the whole of a person.

I often wonder if the new “name” God will give me in Heaven is the original person of me He created in my mother’s womb.  Will He return to me the innocence of the soul I hid to protect, the soul that, even I, never really knew.  In Heaven’s safe place, will the softest, most tender parts of our souls come out of hiding and stand in the light of the Son.

Will I, for the first time, see the real me . . .  unscarred and unafraid to be?

Will I see the real you . . . unscarred and unafraid to show me?

further up, further in

 

 

Storms, Nail Polish and Salmon Patties: Meeting Me (Part 1)

I’ve been posting on this website a couple of times a month for about a year now.  I write stuff from my porch swing when I should be working in my house, and at the kitchen counter while supper is burning on the stove, and on the living room couch while my husband is watching dumb stuff on TV.  You read it while you are at your desk because work is your other option, and in your bathroom because there is not much else to do there, and on your living room couch because some member of your family is watching dumb stuff on TV.

Leigh Ann Northcutt

We have developed a relationship, you and I.  And I think it is time you know more about what makes me . . . me.

My favorite color is blue.  I think the painting of toenails is a tremendous waste of time.  Teaching my kids to drive makes me cuss like a sailor.

I love to watch a storm roll in.  

I hate salmon patties.  

I am indecisive.  But then again, maybe I’m not. 

I use few words when I pray.  I haven’t had a regular, quiet time in . . . well . . . ever.   My job in the body is to remind the other members that God is still in charge and it . . . whatever it is . . . is going to be okay.

I ponder the remarkable things of God.  And then, I write about them.

Awhile ago, I pondered the question, “What keeps God from getting bored with being God?”

Since Adam’s first day, God has been taking care of mankind.  You would think that, by now, He would be tired of holding the whole world in his hands.  You would think that, by now, He would have lost interest in watching over us.  Why is He still interacting with us?  Surely, He has already experienced everything we have to offer.

Living in the Spirit?  Centuries of people have done it.

Walking by faith?  Every generation has its heroes.

Prayers of praise and petition?  They have never stopped.

Sermons preached?  Testimonies given?  Missionaries sent?  There have been too many to count.

It has all been done.  So, after all these years, why is God still calling people to Himself?  Why hasn’t He grown tired and bored with what we can do?  What is it that keeps Him interested?

I think it is me.  (This, of course, applies to you too but I can’t write from inside your head.)

What makes this time and place in history different than the others is me.  Today, God can have a relationship with me . . . a small-town, Kentucky girl who sends Him abounding gratitude in the Spring when the trees begin to bloom . . .  who prays in church with her eyes open . . . and who worships with the words she writes because, although she can carry a tune, she can’t keep it in only one key.

However, for our relationship to be unique for God, it has to be a relationship with the me He created . . . the me He thoughtfully planned and intricately formed in my mother’s womb . . . not with the me who forces myself into a pattern that looks like someone else.

I used to try to impress Him with long, profound prayers.  But my mind tended to wander off before my mouth was through.  It was more pointless than profound.  God never wanted me to pray with eloquence.  He created somebody else to do that.  All I need is one word.  He gave me the understanding that one word uttered goes straight to the throne of God.

Although I often find God in the pages of the Bible, it does not happen during a regular quiet time.  He doesn’t seem to mind.  He created me to enjoy the color of the sky and the force of a storm.  I find Him in those things and I wonder if that gives Him pleasure. Does he enjoy surprising me with glimpses of Himself in the things that I love?  Is playing with me what makes today different for Him than all His other days as God?

I wish that I was better at making decisions.  He doesn’t care that I am indecisive.  I am the child who is always pulling on His robe, interrupting the conversations with His other children, and saying, “Excuse me.  Hey, hey, excuse me, Father.  Could you tell me one more time what it is I’m supposed to do here?”  Not all His kids need Him in just that way.

As a Christian, I want to speak grace well and serve God faithfully.  But, frankly, those things have already been done.

The one thing I can offer God that he doesn’t already have and no one else can give Him is the act of enjoying me as he made me to be.

What will it look like?  I’m still working that out.  But as I learn to be me in the presence of the Lord, I will no longer follow a pattern that doesn’t fit.  I won’t speak words that I don’t mean.

And, when I finally sit down at the Father’s banquet table, He will serve me all the things He created me to like and there won’t be a salmon patty anywhere in sight.

 

 

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Let It Not Be About Fear: Thoughts About The Same Sex Marriage Ruling

I had no intention of writing about the Supreme Court’s decision concerning same sex marriage.

Not me.

No way.

There are too many barbs flying around in that arena.  I don’t deal with conflict well and I don’t duck quickly.  I fully intended to keep my fingers off the computer keys that spell GAY MARRIAGE.

But two things happened this week that changed my mind.  My son said many of his friends are afraid of what the Supreme Court decision means for the future of their generation.  And my husband told me about a man who made harmful life choices and now lives with regret because no one told him to choose differently.

So, just in case there is someone who is afraid of what the SCOTUS decision means and needs to hear it, I’m going to make one statement about the ruling and then I am going to duck and run.

Billy-Graham-2IT’S GONNA BE OKAY!

Take a deep breath and know that God is still sovereign. (Psalm 46:10)  The God who created everything from nothing, who held the Red Sea apart while over two million people crossed  through it, who stopped the sun in the sky and calmed a storm with His words is not troubled.

Are things going to change?

Sure, they are.  The disciples of Jesus will learn to love more.  They will more diligently teach their children the ways of God.  They will turn an ear more often to the Holy Spirit to know when to speak and when to remain quiet, to understand when to reprimand and when to wash feet, and to learn how to offer grace always.

Will it be easy?

Of course, not?  And it won’t be comfortable.  But the people I know who have walked with Jesus and have seen the magnitude of God don’t want “comfortable”.  They want more of God.  They want to love more, hear the voice of the Holy Spirit better, and offer to others the grace that rains down on them.

What response should you have to same sex marriage?

Well, I’m going to say you should choose love every time.  However, I don’t have a clue about what choosing love will look like for you?  That is between you and the Holy Spirit.

Just don’t let your response be influenced by fear . . . not fear for yourself . . . not fear for your children . . . not fear for the United States as a nation.  He who is in you is still greater than he who is in the world.  The words of Jesus can still calm the storm of fear, confusion and bitterness in the world.

IT’S GONNA BE OKAY!

In fact, if the turmoil surrounding the issue of same sex marriage causes us to seek more of God, to depend on Him more for wisdom and assurance, it is going to be good. (Psalm 34:8)

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  (Philippians 4:6-7)

Peace is what I leave with you; it is my own peace that I give you. I do not give it as the world does. Do not be worried and upset; do not be afraid. (John 14:27)

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.  (2 Timothy 1:7)

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go. (Joshua 1:9)

 

 

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The Danger in Teaching the Bible to Our Children

Let me say before I go any further . . . I have not lost the faith.  And I have not completely lost my mind.

I have occasionally lost a couple of my kids but that’s a different story.

Let me also admit to and apologize for sensationalizing the title of this writing.  I knew the shock value of the statement would get your attention.

Now, that I have your attention, let me state that I do think there is an unperceived danger in using the Bible to teach our children about God.

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I need to begin by telling you a story from the books of Deuteronomy and Judges in the Old Testament.

When Moses was 120 years-old, God told him that he would soon die.  He had spent 40 years leading, protecting, motivating, mediating, chastising and learning to love the people of Israel, but he would not enter the Promised Land with them.  He prepared them to complete the journey with Joshua as their leader.

Moses wrote down all the instructions that God had given to the Israelites and gave them to the temple priests.  He told the priests to read the instructions to the people of Israel routinely so they would remember that they belonged to God and keep the covenant they had made with Him.

“Call them all together,” the Lord instructed, “—men, women, children, and foreigners living among you—to hear the laws of God and to learn his will, so that you will reverence the Lord your God and obey his laws.  Do this so that your little children who have not known these laws will hear them and learn how to revere the Lord your God as long as you live in the Promised Land.”  (Deuteronomy 31:12-13)

The priests of Israel took the laws of God which Moses had given them and carried them into the Promised Land to be kept in the Tabernacle and in the Temple which were, then, the houses of God.  Year after year and generation after generation, the priests of Israel read God’s instructions to His people so they would learn to revere Him and obey his laws.

But as the years passed, the nation of Israel repeatedly rejected God and ignored the laws He had given to Moses.

“They did many things that the Lord had expressly forbidden, including the worshiping of heathen gods. They abandoned Jehovah, the God loved and worshiped by their ancestors—the God who had brought them out of Egypt. Instead, they were worshiping and bowing low before the idols of the neighboring nations . . . How quickly they turned away from the true faith of their ancestors, for they refused to obey God’s commands.” (Judges 2:11-12)

In the 500 or so years between Moses and Samuel there was only one generation of people that consistently remained faithful to God, one generation of people who declared from birth to death that He was their God and they were his people.  That was the generation following Moses and Joshua, the generation that still included a few of the people who had experienced the escape from slavery.  They still had access to living witness of the miracles of God along the journey to freedom and to people who saw God working to protect them and to bless them..

“The people had remained true to the Lord throughout Joshua’s lifetime, and as long afterward as the old men of his generation were still living—those who had seen the mighty miracles the Lord had done for Israel.” (Judges 2:7)

You probably see where I am going now.  I hope so.  Because questionable comments about the Bible can be very offensive to Christians.  That is because we consider the words of God to be holy and sacred.

So did the people of Israel.  The Old Testament laws of Moses were hallowed by the Jewish nation.  And yet they were not enough to stir the hearts of the Israelites and inspire them to walk with God.  But the prophet Samuel, the last of the judges of Israel and probably the writer of the book of Judges, said as long as the old men who witnessed the miracles of God after the exodus from Egypt were alive to tell the stories, the people of Israel remained faithful.

So, what about our children?  Do we take the words, laws and instructions of God that are written in the Bible and read them to our children?  Do we teach our children to read them for themselves?

Well, of course, we do.  We teach our children to read, study and memorize them.

But here is the danger in doing that.  In our excitement to teach the Bible to our children, in our passion to introduce them to the abundant life described in its pages, in our fervor to instruct them in the laws of God, we can overlook the fact that there is no power inside the book. The words, in and of themselves, are just words.

Our children need to know that God resides outside the pages of the book.  They need to know that we see him in the sunset, that we hear Him whisper in the wind.

Our children need to know that, although unseen, He is as real to us as they are.  They need to know that He protects us and blesses us and sometimes asks hard things of us.

The Old Testament generations that only knew of God through written words and distant history abandoned Him.  Our children are likely to do the same.  We can’t depend on Bible studies and Awana scripture memorization to open the eyes of our children to the person of God.

Like the old men of Israel, we need to introduce our children to the God we know and tell them the stories of what we have seen of Him.

Then, when our children read the Bible, they will recognize God there.  He will give its instructions significance for them.  He will cause them to love its words. He will give them the abundant life described in its pages.  He will give power to the book.

Note:  Although the Old Testament doesn’t mention the old women of Israel who witnessed the exodus and lived to tell the stories, we know they were there.  If they had not been there, who would have corrected the details in the old men’s stories?

 

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Unmasked by a Dumb, Homeless Guy and a HoneyBaked Ham

It is time to talk about the ham incident of 2014.

Some of you will recall my Facebook posts about it.  I am not proud of the way I responded to the situation.  I have much to confess about my attitude at the time.  I can only hope that you do not lose the bit of respect you may have developed for me.  How would you ever find it again amongst the realizations that I am a lunatic?

Oh, well . . . it must be done.  Let me tell you the story.

It was a week before Christmas and I was beyond busy.  The Christmas season takes the crazy of my normal day, wraps it up with a strand of stress and ties a big, frazzled bow on top.  And on this particular day, I was running late . . . again.

I was headed to an appointment with my beautician because, as we all know, no woman wants to spend Christmas with the roots of her hair looking like Santa’s beard. As I drove up the main street of our little town singing The Christmas Song with James Taylor on the radio, I glanced to the left at my husband’s law office.

I saw two boxes sitting on the porch.  I had gotten a notification from Amazon saying that the theology books I had ordered for my nephew’s Christmas present had been delivered.  So I knew what was in the smaller box.  I slowed down as I approached the building and squinted at the larger box, “What in the world? . . . Hey, maybe . . . Could it be? . . . I think it might . . . Yes, it is! . . . Hallelujah! . . . It’s my HoneyBaked Ham!”

11210435_10203197117243485_5915672224811084721_nGive me a few seconds to tell you about my HoneyBaked Ham.

This is no ordinary ham.  It is a fine, lean specimen of a ham, marinated in a sauce made with Christmas magic, smoked over hardwood chips, topped with a smack-your-mama, sweet sauce, and spiral sliced for my convenience.  The ham is sent to my husband every Christmas by a long-time client and it is so good your mama will turn the other cheek when you slap her . . . as long as you share a little of it with her.

It is delicious.  But there is oh-so-much more to this ham.  Because our family Christmas meal is traditionally shrimp, I freeze the ham and serve it on the following Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving is, by far, the biggest of the sit-down meals in our extended family.  There is an overwhelming amount of food on the table and preparation time spent in the kitchen.  Ownership of that ham (which, by the way, I simply thaw and serve) gives me the ability to assign the purchasing, storing, preparing, baking, and carving of the turkey to my sister-in-law.

I love that ham.

It was late in coming that December and I had begun to worry about it a bit.  But the ham was there, sitting on the office porch.  James Taylor was singing carols in my car.  The town around me was celebrating the season with holiday spirit.  All was well with my Christmas.

My husband’s office was closed that day for one of his many out-of-office holiday experiences.  (The man knows how to enjoy the season.)  I thought for a moment that I should stop and pick up the packages.  But, as I said, I was late for my appointment.  And, as I thought then, what could happen in the middle of the day . . .  in Calvert City, Kentucky . . .  home of 2500 good-hearted people . . . celebrating the birth of Jesus . . . and sending each other Christmas cards that say, “Hey, Yall, Peace on Earth Today”?

So, I drove past the office leaving my nephew’s books and my HoneyBaked Ham on the porch.  An hour and a half later I drove back to get them.

They were gone!

I was stunned.

Gone?  How could they be gone?!  This is Calvert City!  Who in our small-town, America, would steal a neighbor’s Christmas packages?  And do we really have a citizen dumb enough to take them from the porch of the city attorney’s office?

I was astonished.  I was confounded.  I was furious.

Some low-down, no-account Christmas grinch had taken my ham!

My one consolation was that the thief had also taken two books about Christian theology.  I hoped they would smote him with guilt and condemnation.  If I could have gotten hold of him, I would have smote him with a few other things.

I wrote my anger on my Facebook page that night, “I love HoneyBaked Ham and they don’t come cheap!  Oh, Christmas thief, I have but a few words for you. The others I will keep to myself. YOU HAD BETTER BE HOMELESS AND HUNGRY OR I WANT MY HAM BACK!”

At this point, you probably think I over-reacted.  You may have concluded that I am actually a lunatic.  Perhaps I did.  More than likely, I am. But in one act of Christmas crime, the wholesome shine on my small town community was tarnished, Thanksgiving, 2015, was severely compromised, and some dumb, homeless guy had my ham.

Ironically, the dumb guy did not have to take it.

I would have given my ham to a hungry man if he had asked.

I would have given my ham to a hungry man if he had asked.

Stop right here.

Do you see Him?

At this point in the story, I ran smack dab into Jesus.  And, I stumbled all over that last thought.  Not because it isn’t true.  It is.  I would have absolutely given away the ham to a person who needed it . . . quickly and easily . . . with a cheerful heart and very little regret.

It seems that was actually the problem.  If I could cheerfully give away my ham, why was I so angry because someone had taken it?  Either way, my ham was gone and I would have a hand crammed up a turkey butt the following Thanksgiving.

As Jesus pointed out to me . . . (and by this time, I was completely off balance) . . . the dumb, homeless guy in my imagination had taken more than my ham.  He had also taken the opportunity for me to give it to him . . . to do a kindness for a person less fortunate . . . to feel good about myself.

Do you see the problem?  In both scenarios, my ham was gone and a hungry man had been fed.  But, in the first, the ham was taken from me and I was furious.  In the second, I gave away the ham and I felt good about myself.  Evidently, even in an act of generosity, I am mostly about me.

11009081_10203197180565068_911311861586459099_nWell, crap!  (At this point, I sat down at His feet and let self-condemnation puddle around me.)  I thought I was getting better.  I’ve been walking with Jesus for a long time and I really thought I was getting better. You know what I mean . . . becoming more like Christ . . . keeping my eyes set on spiritual things above the physical plane . . . learning to die to my own desires.

Jesus sat down beside me and the puddle dried up.  There is no condemnation in His presence.

We spent some time together and then we both got up and moved on.

He had reminded me.

My life with Jesus is no longer about getting better.

My ham and the books reappeared the following day.  A few hours after depositing the boxes, the UPS man drove back by my husband’s office.  When he noticed that the boxes were still on the porch, he picked them up again and re-delivered them the next day.

In my next Facebook post, I apologized to the fictional thief for my bad attitude.

 

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When I Get to Heaven . . .

This is my week to sit on my porch swing and tell you about my God thoughts.  However, I am not in my swing this week.  I am in Florida.  Although, He is here with me, the beach and the book I am reading are calling me away from the computer.  So, I am publishing a post I wrote a few years ago.  The thoughts at the end are among my favorites.

When I get to heaven, I’m going to tell Jesus “Thank You”.  I’m going to dance with the Holy Spirit. And then, after sitting in God’s lap for about a thousand years,  I’m going to grab a cinnamon date spice drink and wander over to a special showing at the Kingdom of Heaven’s Art Gallery.

I’ll stop by Leonardo Da Vinci’s studio room.  And if he was able to talk the first 12 disciples into posing for a do-over of “The Last Supper”, I’ll sit for a while and watch him paint.

I’ll examine the faces of the men who knew Jesus best as they recreate their last meal with Him.

Then, when the guys can’t sit still any longer, one of them will probably get a mischievous twinkle in his eye and reach out to flick a string of spaghetti at the Apostle Peter . . . who will, more than likely, counter with a meatball fast pitch to Bartholomew’s ear . . . and Bart, oblivious to Da Vinci’s horror, could very well respond by catapulting the lamb and lentil cannelloni over a disbelieving Thomas and into the laps of James and John . . . who aren’t called “The Sons of Thunder” for no reason . . . and I’ll sneak out the door as Leonardo Da Vinci’s “Last Supper” becomes a full-fledged food fight.

I’ll peek in the window of Michelangelo’s studio room.  If he was able to arrange a celestial showing of his paintings, he’ll be there frantically painting clothes on all his chubby, little, naked cherubs.  I image that the censorship committee would have required that.  Heaven knows that if the angel girls were to see his work in its original form, eternity would resound with their alarmed cries.

“Does this painting make my bottom look big?!!”

If Vincent Van Gogh (the demented dude who cut off his own ear) made it to Heaven on the “Special Grace for Troubled Souls Plan”, I’ll check out his studio too.  It’ll probably be in the mental rest wing . . . the section for all the creative geniuses who just feel more at home in a studio with padded walls and a “No Pointed Paint Brush Policy”.

10641229_10203013258327127_5519831605778902280_nAnd then, at the end of the day, I’ll step out onto the balcony and watch in awe as Jesus, the original artistic creator, picks up a brush and paints a sunset . . .

The colors of compassion will spread across his canvas.  Mercy will flow from His paintbrush and ripple over the horizon.

Broad strokes of power and majesty will form clouds in the sky.  Sacrifice will shine through and line them with a bittersweet beauty.

Then, as peace, hope and joy fill in the empty spaces, the angels will begin to sing:

“All creatures of our God and King lift up your voice and with us sing, Alleluia!  Alleluia!”

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Lord, Protect Us From What Seems To Be Reasonable

If you were put on trial for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?

I heard that question on my car radio this week.  It has been roaming around church circles for years.  But, Lord, Lord, I thought this generation had come past that old cliche.

11082630_10203003800970699_7854584528319806279_nI immediately became uncomfortable.  My jaw clenched.  My brow furrowed.   My chest tightened.   My hands gripped the steering wheel.  And I had a sudden urge to hit the nearest Christian.

(I don’t think I would have hit them with my car but it is hard to tell for sure.  I was pretty stressed at that moment.)

From both a logical and spiritual point of view, it is a ludicrous question.

In what unlikely scenario would I find myself saying, “Am too, am too a Christian and I can prove it”?

If it were possible to prove my Christianity with good deeds, which of them would be admissible as evidence? The ones I begrudge? The ones I fake?  The impressive ones that douse me with spiritual pride?

The actual works of God in me are hidden in the intentions of my heart.  I’m pretty sure that only He can identify them.  I certainly can’t untangle them from the other stuff that resides there . . .  impressions of responsibility, the need to please, a bit of self-righteousness and a crap load of pride.

If I could untangle and identify the works of God in me, they still couldn’t serve as evidence of my walk with God.  Physical eyes can’t discern spiritual growth.  There is no way they could determine whether deeds which look to be good are actually of God.

If you were put on trial for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?

It seems to me that this question and others like it are demons in disguise.  They seem reasonable at first, even insightful, and pleasantly religious in a “prove to me you are good enough” kind of way.

But they stand on the path to God and they say to those who would approach, “Stay back!  You can not come close.  There are things you must do.  There are books you must study.  There are changes you must make before you can join those who are worthy.”

So, I stand in the crowd with young Christians who are deceived by that kind of reasoning, and I want to hit them.  I want to hit them and say, “Wake up!  Don’t get caught in the implications of that question!  You can’t be put on trial.  You are safe in the arms of God.

“Just walk with Jesus.  There is more of God ahead!  Don’t stop to see if you are accruing good works and don’t stop to measure yours against other’s.  If you do, guilt will surely slow you down or, even worse, pride will trip you up.

“Hold onto Jesus and keep walking.  The only thing that matters about your standing as a Christian is written on the scars in his hands.”

 

 

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The Parable of the Best Cartoon Mother

I took a Facebook quiz this week to see which Disney mother I am most like.   A Disney illustrated computer program analyzed my answers and determined that I am most like Sarabi, the mother lion in “The Lion King”.  

As a Sarabi-like mom, I am a gracious mother with a calm exterior and a fierce spirit.  

Calm?  Yep, that’s me.  Gracious and fierce?  Well, those are not words I would have chosen to describe myself, but who am I to argue with a scientific, Disney-animated, personality quiz?

Based on the ten questions I answered in the 38 seconds of self-analysis it took to take the test, a virtual analyst wrote this about me, “You would put yourself through hell and back for your family and never ask for a single thing in return which kind of makes you a saint.”

A saint?!  Me?  Really?

No . . . Well, maybe . . . Okay . . . So, how can I argue with that?  It is, after all, Facebook official.  

Let’s see the other Disney mothers do better than that!

Queen Elinor from “Brave” a better mother than Sarabi and me?  Not likely.  She may be a noble role model and have great hair, but her daughter has a rebellious streak and the triplets need to be locked in the dungeon until the sugar wears off.

Andy’s mom from “Toy Story”?  I don’t think so.  The quiz praises her for fostering creativity in her children, but did you get a good look at her house? There are toys EVERYWHERE!

Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother?  Not on her best day! Take away her magic wand and all she has to offer is a couple of rodents, a very large vegetable and a nonsensical song about some old bippity with boppity boobs.  That is totally inappropriate for young children!

Who are the best Disney mothers?  I think it is obvious that it is those of us who have a Sarabi-like philosophy of child rearing.  But it doesn’t matter what I think.  To know who is the best Disney mom, we would have to ask Walt Disney.

I submit this story as a parable in animated form.  Most women will understand it. For those of you who are men and do not have female ears to hear the message, let me explain the meaning to you.

Women are born with an intense need to know they are significant, that who they are and what they do is good and right and worthy.

As mothers, it is often hard for us to find our worth.  No one sends us “Thumbs up on the aesthetically pleasing color variations in your dinner foods” or “Good job with the kitchen floor potty clean-up” memos.  Our jobs do not offer us plaques to hang on our walls or trophies to set on our shelves.  And we do not have standardized specifications by which we can measure our successes and feel good about ourselves.

So, we make up our own standards.  And we are crazy hard on ourselves.

We need to feed our kids three healthy meals a day, preferably of our own making, and two servings of frozen chicken nuggets in one week will most certainly cost us the Mother Of The Year Award.  We must school our children properly, discipline them appropriately, and protect them from all danger.  We should teach them to obey their elders, spend their money wisely and eat their broccoli without complaining.  We need to make sure they do not to lie, steal, bully or pick their noses in public.

We need to do these things and many more with perfect results and without asking for help.  You would not believe the amount of guilt we can carry when we use the television as a babysitter for half an hour so we can shower, brush our teeth, clean the peanut butter off the toilet seat, keep the family in clean underwear, and eat chocolate without having to share.

At some point, most of us realize that it is impossible to meet all the requirements we have set for ourselves.  We must accept failure or set priorities.  So each of us chooses the mothering standards we consider to be most important and we measure ourselves according to this new list.

Unfortunately, we measure other mothers by the same list.

  • Balancing motherhood with a job
  • Feeding and vaccinating your baby,
  • Schooling and disciplining your children
  • Putting your kids to bed at night

(Those are the biggies but the list goes on)

If your list of choices on these issues are not the same as mine, you must be wrong.  Because, if you are right, that means I am wrong.

And I can not be wrong.  Because, if I am wrong, I have failed my children.  I am not a good parent.  I have no worth as a mother.

We need a judge to assess us, measure us against other mothers, and tell us we that we are right.  I have no idea what Walt Disney would say if we could ask him who is the best Disney mom.  But if we were to ask God to identify the best of His chosen mothers, I’m pretty sure I know what He would say.

He would say, “Come to me, all of you women who have burdened yourselves with questions about who is right and who is wrong, and I will give you rest from all that crap. (Matthew 11:28, loose translation)

“Be still and know that you do not need to be perfect . . . and neither do the other women.

“Because I am God . . .

  • I paid a terrible price to declare you good and right and worthy
  • I can take care of your children with or without you
  • I direct each of you on your own path as a woman and a mother”

(Psalm 46:10, extremely loose translation)

Chasing the “Who is right?  Who is wrong?” questions will send most of us women into a permanent spin.

But if women take their places in a circle, as if they were spokes in a wagon wheel, and all walk toward God, who stands in the middle, they will find that they will naturally draw closer together.

 

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