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God Thoughts

God Thoughts

When Short Legs Happen to Good People

I first saw Corrie Johnson (then Corrie Reinhardt) about 10 years ago on the stage of a community theater doing a dandy job of portraying Anne in Anne of Green Gables.  My daughter, Casey, was cast as Anne’s best friend, Diana.  Casey, who dyed her hair black for the role, was a very good Diana. But Corrie, who came with natural red braids, stole the show as Anne.  Like the characters they played, Corrie and Casey became fast friends.

A couple of years ago, I followed Casey into Corrie’s facebook world and was amazed at what I found there. It seems that in many ways, Corrie, in the adult world, is me.  As Anne said, “Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It’s splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.”

Are we kindred spirits?  I think so.  Corrie is now married and living on a farmish place with a husband and several children.  She seems to believe that children are precious and funny and make for good blog posts.  Her stories are familiar.  It seems like I have lived many of them.  And her view of God looks a lot like mine.

A few days ago, I read an article she wrote and asked her permission to re-publish it here.  This is the story of her third pregnancy.  Read until the end.  You won’t soon forget it.

A little over a year ago, we found out there might be a problem.

Actually, October 2nd, to be exact. I’d just thanked the ultrasound tech for using warm gel as she slid the Doppler over my belly. She laughed. She took measurements and clicked photos.

I asked, “Is it hard?”

She looked at me. “Is what hard?”

“When you see something that’s not quite right. When you see a problem. Is it hard to tell the patient?”

She smiled in a soft, painful way. She spoke quietly.

“Yeah, it’s hard.”

A few minutes later she left the room to go get my OB. Because, apparently, I’d just asked about myself.

They explained a few things. Not everything was measuring 20 weeks in average size. One of her legs wasn’t straight. And both femurs were short. And here, here’s an appointment on October 17th with a high-risk maternal-fetal clinic we’re referring you to…

Wait, what?

Okay. Breathe a little. So her legs are a little short. No big deal. The next ultrasound is just to confirm that maybe she’ll be on the petite side. And I didn’t give a whole lot of thought to our next appointment for fifteen more days.

On October 17th, we had another ultrasound. Then, via Skype, we met my new high-risk OB that I was sure I’d be only seeing once. I’d never Skyped before and the computer wasn’t working. I laughed. Then the screen crackled and Dr. Lain’s face smiled at us. I waved.

I heard new words. New words that took my breath away. New words that slapped me in the face and punched me in the stomach. New words like “skeletal dysplasia” and “could be lethal” and “sometimes the baby is so fragile it can’t survive birth” and “if the heart and lungs grow at an average size and the ribcage stays small, the baby won’t be able to breathe past its first few moments” and “you have the option of terminating this pregnancy.”

I will hate Skype for the rest of my life. I sat there, frozen. I nodded. I bit my lip. And I didn’t have a notepad to write down words and questions because I really just had no idea we’d be having a conversation like that. Absorbing the information was like putting your hand on a hot stove and just watching a scar melt into your skin.

And although nothing about my pregnancy actually changed, what I knew about it changed, and the next 18 weeks were just as seared into my memory.

Ultrasounds were scheduled twice a month looking for clues – for hairline fractures or visible breaks in the bones. For specific telltale signs of common diagnoses. There were none. None to dread and none to give a glimmer of relief. Only that she was small. Only that her legs weren’t straight. Only that she might still not survive birth. Only that we didn’t have answers and would have to wait and see. Wait and see.

We kept friends and family updated, of course. I remember writing through tears –

We are so grateful to be expecting another baby. We don’t want fear to rob us of one moment of this joy. We are thankful that God chose us to be Lucy’s parents and that through this situation, whatever comes of it, she will experience what it means to be loved; that regardless of what Lucy’s life looks like or how long it lasts that she and our other daughters will be equipped to understand that we live in a broken world and that the hope and peace of Christ is relevant in all situations.

We know that God is always good, and we are small in perspective, but greatly loved.

///

We have been encouraged in remembering that when the Israelites wandered in the desert, God provided them manna. The literal translation of the word manna is “What is it?” In their desert wandering, their provision and sustenance was something they didn’t even have a name for. The mystery, the very unknown, was what God provided them in their need. Pray for our peace in this mystery as we work our way through what is unclear. Pray for wisdom as we carefully move forward on making decisions, for our acceptance of the unknown with open hands. This is our manna. Though this scenario is something we would probably never pick for ourselves, we have not been without peace. … Pray for us to continue giving thanks.

And let me tell you: when I look back on those words, it’s like I’m reading something that someone brave wrote and I.did.not.feel.brave.

There was a sadness and an ache present even on my most peaceful days. But one thing that struck me repeatedly were responses of support that went something like this –

I just don’t understand why this is happening to you. You’re such a good person.

Hoping for the best outcome, which is nothing less than what you deserve.

Lots of good vibes for you because you guys are awesome.

And I really have no answer to that. I only have questions. And please, please know that there were days I felt unraveled and all the kindnesses and prayers and words of strength hemmed me in and those words got me through eighteen of the hardest weeks of my life. But I have this to say:

Karma chokes on its own advice at the foot of the Cross.

Karma exists on the assumptions that you get what you deserve, that what goes around comes around, and that if bad things happen to good people there’s a glitch in the system.

That doesn’t hem anybody in. It leaves me feeling a little frayed.

Karma insists that God – if there is a god – owes me something defined by my own sense of justice and my own works of goodness. It suggests that my pregnancy doesn’t deserve to be tainted with fear and sadness. It doesn’t actually answer why bad things happen to good people, nor does it define what a good person is, nor does it suggest a moral standard by which divine favors are meted out.

Karma doesn’t answer why Jesus stayed on the cross if bad things don’t happen to good people and you get what you deserve.

But if not my pregnancy, then whose? As wildly as I pled with God Almighty to spare her, the question I had to face every time was –  why should he? What does he owe me?

Karma doesn’t give me any hope. It doesn’t give me anything to grip tightly. And in my desperate, white knuckle grip, I wanted to  know that even if my daughter died, I was still loved by a God who is actively redeeming crap and restoring wholeness in this broken world and that one day suffering will be over. Starving children? Karma doesn’t answer that. Babies born with AIDS? Karma doesn’t address that. Human trafficking? Karma comes up short.

I believe youth are walking away from the Church in droves because their concept of Jesus is based in a concept of karma and it’s letting them down because karma always will. The Church has to get with the program and get our answer straight on suffering. Suffering is part of the picture. It just is. How are we going to view and respond to it?

Karma doesn’t reach out and identify with your pain or cup your face and promise that one day you won’t be crying anymore. Karma doesn’t answer why your past has scars and it doesn’t give you any hope for the future. It doesn’t acknowledge your pain, answer your pain, or ever promise a permanent end to your pain. I wrote in another email update –

Our question is not, “Why do bad things happen?” but “How in the world do good things still happen when we are so undeserving?” There will always be wounding and pain as long as we’re walking this earth, there will always be unanswered questions, and there will always be brokenness, disease, loneliness, and strife. The cross is the only thing that can bind up hurt and transform lives. It is relevant and real, and we’re so thankful that God takes us where we’re at – whether curled up in a ball of tears or angrily screaming at him when it seems it takes all the life out of you just to live and make it through another day. He holds every broken heart and the pieces of every shattered dream. The cross stands alone in its promise of hope, peace, healing, and transforming the miserable into the incredible.  

Those words? They don’t really seem that overtly brave to me. They’re just words that I believe and live. And they’re words that I want my daughters – all of my daughters – to live and believe, too. Life is hard – but God is good.

Corrie’s third daughter, Lucy, is 10 months old now.  She has been diagnosed with Osteogenesis Imperfecta Type IV.  She likes crawling and eating dead bugs.  Corrie blogs at pigintheriver.blogspot.com

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Jesus Is NOT the Reason for the Season

I tried.  God knows that I did.

I tried to find the place in the Christmas holiday where He and I meet.

As is traditional for us, my family ended each day in December by reading the record of Jesus’s birth in advent calendar form.  But this year, I couldn’t stay with the story.  There were just so many others things to think about.

I brought Casting Crowns into my kitchen every time I cooked . . . and this Christmas, I cooked till my oven and I were worn-out and weary.

10308324_10202457725279148_9013501281250565676_n“Love is raining down on the world tonight
There’s a presence here I can tell
God is in us, God is for us, God is with us, Emmanuel”

I sang the words.  But I wasn’t moved by them.

When I didn’t feel God in that chorus, I broke out the big tunes.  I put Josh Groban in my CD player, turned the volume to wake-your-neighbors-from-a-deep-hard-sleep and waited for the power of It Came Upon a Midnight Clear to open the heavens and show me the face of Jesus.

I couldn’t see past the timer on my oven and the cinnamon snack mix inside it.

Christmas cards, Christmas carols, Christmas sermons and seasonal blog posts all came to me repeatedly reminding me to look for Jesus in the holiday chaos.  I looked but I didn’t find him.

Even Linus’s explanation of what Christmas is all about did not affect me.  I was, however, once again amazed by the creative utilization of his blue blanket.

This year, I couldn’t see past Christmas to find Jesus.

But that’s okay.  Really, it is.

Because Jesus is not the reason for the season.  He is not the true meaning of Christmas.  He is not the “presence” behind the presents.  And . . . please don’t stab me with the crucifixion nail you have hidden in your Christmas tree . . . He is not the Christian mascot for the month of December.  I have grown to dislike the Christmas cliches that make me feel as if he is.

Jesus is much bigger than those words imply.  And he will be waiting for me when December is gone.

He will encourage me with the promise of January.  He will pick up and put down my feet when the dreariness of February sucks out all my strength.

He and I will dance as the world comes to life in March and April.  He’ll keep me company in May when my husband leaves on his annual canoe trip which most always falls on our anniversary.

Jesus will meet me in Miller Park every day of June, July and August to talk about life and show me Himself and haul my tired backside up the the big hills on the walking trail.

He’ll be there when my kids go back to school in the fall and the changing season reminds me that I can’t hold onto the days of my life.  Then he will stand behind me and wrap his arms tightly under my arms to hold me up as December crashes down around me again.

Don’t tell me to look for Jesus in December.  I need him to be the way and the truth in every season of my life.

 

 

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Peace in the Canned Goods Aisle

And suddenly, the great armies of Heaven appeared with the Angel, while shouting praises to God, and they were saying:  “Glory to God in Heaven, and upon earth peace, Good News to the children of men.” (Luke 2:13-14)

Peace at Christmas?  You’ve got to be kidding.

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.

It picks up my List of Things To Do and multiplies it by tradition to the power of insanity . . . and then highlights it with a manic marker.  By the 25th, my tree is lit up with strings of lunacy.  My stocking holds a good-sized pile of “pooped”.

Peace is usually delivered to somebody else’s house.

But one year, just a few days before Christmas, I was standing in the grocery store about 10 p.m. searching frantically for a can of oysters . . . a can of oysters that I needed to make oyster casserole . . . the oyster casserole that nobody actually likes but is a tradition at my family’s Christmas dinner . . .  the family dinner that I was serving the next day at my house . . . the house that I had scrubbed and spit-polished so 20ish people could clutter it up with Christmas chaos . . . the same kind of chaos that had cluttered every second of Christmas up to that point.

I heard myself panicked and praying, “Lord, I need oysters.  Just one can.  Just one, Lord.  It’s okay if they are expired.  We’re not going to eat them anyway.”

Then I found it!  A can of oysters!!

My prayers became praises, “Thank you, Lord.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Christmas is complete.”

A bit dramatic; but I blame it on fatigue . . . which disappeared with a new thought.

“Christmas . . . Oh, crap!!  It’s almost Christmas, Lord, and the only thing I have thanked You for is a can of oysters.  I’ve let the whole season go by without acknowledging the birth of Jesus.

And . . . there they were.  Guilt, failure and self-condemnation . . . come to visit for the holidays . . . and carrying baggage like they intended to stay a while.

Then, God came down to meet me in the canned goods aisle of the IGA a few days before Christmas.  And He said, “Child! . . . Chill!!”

“So . . . you haven’t thanked Me . . . and you  reviewed your shopping list during every sermon in December . . . and you didn’t bake Jesus a birthday cake. . . and you fell asleep before Linus recited the Christmas story to Charlie Brown.”

“I don’t care.”

“You hung onto the hem of my robe just to survive the season.  You never let go.  You did good.”

Then my soul found it . . . for a moment . . .

Peace.

“I am leaving you with a gift–peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give.”  (John 14:27)

If this story sounds familiar, it is because I wrote it a few years ago and posted it on my first blog site.  But again, I find myself overwhelmed by Christmas.  And again, God finds me in the midst.

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Beyond James Taylor

Last week my husband and I were given floor seat tickets to a James Taylor concert at The KFC Yum! Center in Louisville.

Just taking a moment here to wonder:  Who names a 238 million dollar arena that seats 22,000 people The Yum! Center?  Surely, the University of Louisville basketball team finds it difficult to intimidate when the banner over their home court flies the word, “Yum!”.

997079_10202221857142592_542691696853400175_nIt was the third time we have seen James in concert and, by far, the best.

Just stopping for a little bit to note:  I have never met James Taylor.  But I’m pretty sure the massive pleasure his music has put in my life and the many dollars I have, in return, placed in his pocket have put us on a first name basis.

With the first notes of Something in the Way She Moves, I settled into the music. Two songs later, the harmony of Lo and Behold wrapped around me.  Then the lyrics of Copperline carried me away to a time in the past.

But, it was Country Road and Carolina in My Mind that overwhelmed me.  As James Taylor sang, the room filled with his music . . . with the beauty and the aesthetic power of his music . . . and, then with the Creator of his music.

I don’t know whether or not James sees God.  I very much hope so.

Just pausing here to be completely truthful:  For James’ sake, I hope that he has grabbed hold of everything Jesus can give to him.  Selfishly, I sooooo hope he has. Because, among other wonderful things, Jesus can give him a mansion close to mine.  When the angels are organizing the neighborhood sing-offs in Heaven, I want to be on James Taylor’s team.

But, he may not see God with understanding.  He may be convinced that his talent and perceptions fashion his songs.  He may believe the birth of his music comes from inside himself.  If so, he is short-sighted.  And he is mistaken.

The same artist that placed the sea beside the shore placed the voice in James Taylor.  The same hand that paints the sunsets, guides James’ fingers on the strings of his guitar.  Beauty in all forms, even when disclosed by the unredeemed, springs from the hands of God, circles around his being, and resounds with his praise.

Whether or not James realizes it, God was there while he sang . . . in a realm just beyond the stage.  I saw him.

And, even if James didn’t say, “Thank You!”  I did.  When God created James Taylor with the ability to make music, He gave me a gift that I very much enjoy.  I’m learning not to separate the gift and the giver.

During the music of Country Road and Carolina in My Mind, I swayed with the rhythm and I tapped my foot to the beat.  I smiled because James was smiling and my heart was warmed by the sound of his voice.  I thanked God for the man and the guitar and the melody and the night.  Then I raised my hand just a little bit because while James Taylor was singing, I was worshiping.

Just ending with an acknowledgement:  I realize that some people don’t look for God in the secular world.  But, I think that I might think there is no secular world.  Although scarred by sin, it is all his creation and we can see reflections of him everywhere.  

And some people may think a child of God can not worship to a James Taylor song.  If so, they are short-sighted.  And they are very mistaken. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Spiritual Trinkets

Five years ago, God took me from an active place of service and set me down in a chair.

I didn’t like it even a little bit.

I stretched.  I wiggled.  I scooted around until only one spiritual bum cheek was left in the chair.  If I had thought it would have worked, I would have raised my hand and offered to write a long prospectus about why He needed me up and working.

But my pencil was worn to a nub from the list of suggestions I had already given him.  And besides that, He hadn’t really asked for my opinion. With each of my efforts, God put out his hand and kept me firmly in the chair.

woman-leaning-on-a-chair.jpg!BlogSo I sat there.

I pouted some.  I whined a little.   I often felt sorry for myself because all the other kids were allowed to run around in the world while I had to sit in my chair.  Then, I pouted and whined a lot more.

God was not moved to change his mind.   In fact, He didn’t seem particularly sympathetic to my plight.

Finally, I began to sit still and look around.  As it turned out, I could see God much better from my chair than I had seen him while I was up and doing things.  I could hear him speak clearer without the disruptive noises of the world and the sound of my own voice in my head.

Each time I saw God or heard him speak, I scooted my chair a little closer to him.  Every time I scooted closer, I saw and heard more of him.  During the years I spent in that chair, He became bigger and more captivating.

(Don’t shake your head here.  I do realize that it was me who changed and not God, but it reads better this way.)

Recently, God pulled back his hand and said, “Get up, girl.  I’ve got some things for you to do.”  And I walked back into the world where God’s people are working.

It was good to be back.  I felt useful.  And I came away with a few Christ-like achievement points gained in the spiritual world by genuine service.

Five years ago, I would have found a lot of pleasure in those achievements.

Now . . . not so much.

Why?  I don’t know.

But here is what I think.

I think serving, in the Christian sense, is a complicated concept.

For some of us, like my friend, Marla, serving others is as natural as breathing.  It is at the heart of her relationship with Jesus.  As she takes in more of him, she needs to give more of him away in acts of service.  If she could not, I think her heart would burst with the size of him.

But for others of us, service is a unit of measure in the body of Christ.  To our eyes, it looks as though the quantity and quality of the tasks God gives us define us.  They determine our worth to him and our importance among his followers.

And I’m pretty sure that, often, our acts of service are the basis of spiritual pride.

What do we do about it?  I don’t know.

But here is what I think I might think.

I think we walk toward God.  When He gives us a task to do along the way, we respond.

We call that service.  (God may very well roll his eyes and call it something else.  To say that we are “serving God” is to assume that we can help him in some way . . . kind of like my kids thinking I can’t cook unless they are there to stir the lettuce.)

If we fail at the task He gives us, our natural response is to stop and beat ourselves up.

If we succeed at the task . . . if we let God work through us to love on someone, or speak spiritual wisdom, or trust him to keep us standing when the ground becomes shaky, our natural tendency is to hold our successes up to God and suggest that we should both be very pleased with them.

Perhaps the problem is that, in both cases, we take our eyes off God and put them on the success or failure of our service.  The mind set on the spirit is life and peace.  The mind set on the flesh . . . even the acts of service that God gives us to do . . . is death.

If that is the problem, what do we do about it?  We are human.  We are naturally insecure and self-centered and leaking pride from every pore.

How do we react any other way?

This one I know.

Several times a week, I walk in the county park, which is where God meets me to show Himself and talk about stuff and drag my out-of-shape body up the big hills.  Most days my spirit feels him there.  Some days I am overwhelmed by his presence.

As I walked this week, I pulled my new Christ-like achievement points out of my pocket to show him.  They really were very nice points.  I was excited about them and I knew they would make him smile.

But when I held them up for him to see, I caught sight of God again . . . the God that is big.  The God that held me in a chair so I would become captivated by his power and beauty and love for me.

When I held up my hands, all those little trinkets of spiritual service fell through my fingers and landed at his feet because I couldn’t look away from his presence.

We must not remove our eye from looking alone to Jesus Himself even to adore his image within ourselves; for if we do so, we shall go backward rather than forward.     Charles Spurgeon

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Beyond the Words of Worship

I was in a Bible study this week with young Christians. When I say, “young Christians”, I mean they were actually young . There wasn’t another person in the room with an arthritic knee or a bottle of age-renewal makeup stowed in their purse. I worked all night to keep my stomach sucked in and the gray roots in my hair hidden from view. Bible study hasn’t been that exhausting in a long time.

The subject for the evening was worship. Why do we do it? What does it look like? How do you foster it? As a 50-year-member of the Be At Church Every Time The Doors Are Open Club, I have heard those questions discussed many times. People generally don’t agree on any of the answers.

Is worship prayer? Is it praise? Is it more than prayer and praise?

For me? Yes. Yes. And, I’m pretty sure, yes.

Worship in my sister’s more charismatic world comes with added questions. Should you raise your hands when you worship? One or two hands? How high? How long?

My answers? Sometimes. One hand. High enough for God to see. But, not long enough for anyone else to notice.

Do you dance during worship? Do you dance from your seat? Do you dance in the aisle?

No way. No how. Not until Jesus comes back and gives me a new body with a decent sense of rhythm.

When I join my kids’ generation in worship, I come away with a slight headache and questions I never before thought of asking. Can worship happen with drums and electric guitars? Does it cause deafness? And what’s with the strobe lights flashing in my eyes during a service?

If you are over 50, the answers to those questions are: Yes, it can. Not if you wear earplugs. And, some under-30 idiot thought they would be a good idea.

Did I say any of that stuff to the younger generation? I did not. I also didn’t say what I really think I think.

I think that perhaps we talk too much about worship.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote, “Earth’s crammed with heaven. And every common bush afire with God. But only he who sees takes off his shoes. The rest sit round and pick blackberries.”

Only he who sees takes off his shoes in worship. (Exodus 3:1-15)

Worship is what our souls do when we see God.

What does it look like? I don’t know.

Describe it? I can’t.

Limit it to a time and place? Impossible.

Worship is as varied as all of Christendom. My sister raises her hands. My mother-in-law lifts her face to Heaven. My husband does worship on the back of a horse. My daughter-in-law prefers a traditional church service. When my friend, Marla, experiences God, she responds with her own acts of service. She says, “I just need to do for people.”

If worship is how each of our souls respond when we see God, the best we can do is to encourage each other to look for Him.

As it turns out, Earth is actually crammed with Heaven. And every common bush really is afire with God. (Psalm 19: 1-2) To those of us who see Him, God is saying, “This place is filled with my holiness. Take off your shoes. Take off your shoes, child, and sink your toes into everything that is me.”

How do we tell someone what it feels like to wade in the essence of God? How do we explain the way our souls respond to the touch of Him? What words are adequate?

It just seems to me that when it comes to the subject of worship, we talk too much.

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Easter: The Prequel

First published in April, 2012

Before Jesus on Earth, before the cross, before the Easter morning resurrection, God wrote another story on the pages of history.

The main characters were God, Himself, and a man named Abram. They had known each other for many years and although Abram had not always been a great guy, God had watched the man’s back.

When this story began, God and Abram had just returned from a special mission to rescue Abram’s nephew, who had been kidnapped by four neighboring armies. They had worked well together. Abram had supplied 318 men from his household as soldiers. God had supplied the victory.

As they were reveling in the success of their mission, God inserted a twist in the plot of His saga on Earth.

Rather than leaving Abram with a nice parting gift . . . like the watercolor rainbow He had painted for Noah or the fig leaf formal wear He had given to Adam, . . . God decided to stay with this man and treat him like family. He promised to become a generous benefactor, a vigilant guardian and a caring father figure for Abram.

With this new relationship, Abram would receive God’s protection from his enemies and full access to all God’s riches.

Abram believed God.

And then, in effect, he asked, ”Can we shake on it?”

But, unfortunately, the gentleman’s handshake, the germaphobe’s fist bump and the unbreakable pinky promise had not yet come to be. In Abram’s time and place, a serious agreement was sealed with a blood covenant.

A blood covenant was a sacred agreement that bound two people together until death and then was passed on to the next generations. It was the ultimate symbol of loyalty and fidelity making the two as one, never to be separated.

The ritual required that animals be killed, cut in half and laid on the ground with a path between the pieces. When the blood of the animals covered the ground, God and Abram would walk between the carcasses and meet in the middle to promise fidelity to each other.

By walking the path of blood, each of them would declare that if they broke the covenant, they would be as the animals that were sacrificed.

The crisis of the story happens here because God knew that the blood covenant would seal his promises to Abram. But, He also knew that should Abram or his children break this relationship with Him . . . reject Him in any way, the covenant would require their deaths.

So, God put Abram to sleep. And He walked the blood path to seal His promise to Abram. And then, He turned around and walked the path again . . . in Abram’s place.

If Abram or any of his descents broke the blood covenant, someone would die.

But it would not be Abram or any of his descendants.

It would not be me.

This story began in Chapter 15 of Genesis . . . and was continued at Calvary.

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Me and Jesus and the Noah Movie

I have a confession to make. In 2003, I hid a copy of Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code in a brown paper bag and smuggled it from the Calvert City Branch of the Marshall County Public Library.

And I read it.

I read it alone in my house with the shades pulled down. Some of my friends would have disapproved if they had known I read something so obviously anti-christian.

But it was a good story and I am addicted to good stories.

The Christian world feared the book would cause people to doubt the deity of Jesus. They had good cause. I remember thinking that, even as a fairly mature Christian, the book could cause me to question much of what I knew about Jesus if I believed everything in its pages. I’ll admit that while reading the book, my doubts occasionally caused me to question God.

I realized that it was possible for outside forces to affect what my mind thinks about theology and historical facts.

However, the stuff that my soul knows . . . the realities about God that came to me from the Spirit . . . remained steady and strong as I read the book.

As a result, hearing the Holy Spirit became more important to me.

Some of the Christian world is now telling the rest of the Christian world not to see the movie, Noah. It isn’t biblical. It isn’t accurate. And, it doesn’t follow the story line we are taught in Sunday School.

They mean well, I believe. They think it is important that the principles and stories of God be established and unquestioned.

My problem is that I am pretty sure Jesus would disagree.

Here is what I think I think.

In Sunday School, we learn good character from the Old Testament Bible stories. We should obey like Noah, be brave like Esther, forgive like Joseph and have faith like Abraham.

We study spiritual lessons in the stories Jesus told the Jews of his time. The story of the prodigal son teaches us that God loves us unconditionally. We learn that love must overcome prejudice and self-righteousness from the parable of the Good Samaritan.

We learn the moral of every story. We talk about how to apply it to our lives. We leave church with one more tidy tidbit about God wrapped up in a sturdy box that keeps it safe from questioning thoughts.

And, we don’t experience God.

When Jesus originally told those same stories, there was nothing nice or tidy about the reaction of the crowd. The details of his parables were abhorrent within their culture.

Samaritans as neighbors? Unthinkable!! It would be better to die.

A Jewish son who disobeys his father? Ludicrous!!

A Jewish father who humbles himself to run to a son? Outrageous!!

Those people would have left shocked, angry and confused. Questions would have busted the seams of their boxes. If they had wanted answers, they would’ve had to seek God for them.

And, in seeking answers, they would have experienced him.

I think, perhaps, God would like us to worry less about having all the right answers and spend more time being confused by a few of the questions.

So, I think I’ll go see Noah. I’ll make a list of the things that offend me, a list of the things I think are profound and a list of every little jot and tittle I don’t understand.

Then, I’ll take my lists to the throne room. And, I’ll sit at the feet of Jesus while we talk about the movie, Noah.

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The Blessing

They were mad.

My Southern-born mother would have said that they were so mad they could spit.

Life was hard and hurtful and God had promised them better.

They couldn’t understand Jesus’s delay.

Hadn’t the Jewish people been waiting for generations for God to deliver them from persecution? Hadn’t they been faithful to remind each other in all that time that one day God would stop their suffering?

“Next year . . . ” They told each other day after day.

“Next year in Jerusalem! ”

Surely, next year in Jerusalem, God will send Messiah to help us!”

Jesus was the one God had sent! He performed miracles and supernatural signs everywhere He went. He was the one their scriptures promised would remedy the injustice in their world. They were certain of it.

But, Jesus had been with them for over a year and nothing in Israel had changed.

Life was still hard and hurtful.

And God had promised them better!

They were tired of waiting. So, they followed Jesus up the mountain that day to confront him. They stood in the back of the crowd as others gathered close around him.

Most days, when I go to Jesus, I draw close to him too. I sit at his feet and breathe in his words.

But, there have been days when I stood back with the angry ones, asking him, “Are you, Jesus, son of Joseph of Nazareth, the Messiah? Or, are you not? Because, if you are, you need to step up and fix some things!”

Jesus opened his mouth and spoke.

He was talking to those of us who were sitting at his feet. But He spoke with enough force to reach those of us who were standing in the back of the crowd.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

“Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.

“Blessed are those who have been persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

His words were poignant and poetic. But, none of the his early followers understood much of what He said.

How could they? He was speaking a spiritual language and they had no interpreter.

But, I do. And He has taught me that these are the blessings of the beat up and bent over.

“Blessed,” He said to his disciples,

Are those who are gentle, merciful and pure in heart,

Those who humble themselves to make peace,

The ones who need to be right with God as desperately as they need food and water . . . and then are persecuted for it,

Those who are weak with sorrow,

And blessed are the poor in spirit . . . the beat up and bent over . . . the ones who know they have absolutely nothing to bring to the table when they go to God.

(I need to step into the story here and release some pent-up frustration. You might want to stand back a bit from your screen.

When I hear people use these verses to teach that Christians should work to take on the characteristics that Jesus mentions in the beattitudes, I want to scream, “No! No! No! HELL AND FIRE NO!!” [Apologies sent to my Southern-born mother]

If the message we take away from this passage is: If we are gentle and merciful and pure in heart and become peacemakers and pursue righteousness, God will bless us . . . then we make this about us!

THE BEATTITUDES ARE NOT ABOUT US!!

[Can you hear me screaming?]

If we focus our attention on the first half of each beattitude [I’ve got a problem with the name too.] then we diminish the significance of the second half.

It is in the second half that we find the blessing!)

They are blessed because God will meet them there!

Many generations of disciples later, those of us who are children of God still panic when life cycles into its hard times or when we see pain on the horizon? Why do we so desire comfort in our circumstances?

Even with access to the teaching of the Holy Spirit, those of us who have chosen to follow Jesus still want to stand tall. We struggle with bending to serve others? Why do we so desire comfort for our egos?

Why do we still get angry when life is hard and hurtful and demand that God step up and fix things?

I’m pretty sure, if we stopped fighting with our disappointments and listened, we would still hear Jesus telling us about the blessing . . .

“Child . . . shhh . . . be still

“Don’t run from this place.

“Open your spiritual eyes and look around.

“GOD is here!

“And He has brought you mercy for today.

“He has come to draw you to his side, cover you with his wings and give you rest.

“It is here that you most need God. So, it is here that He most fills you.

“He reigns most powerfully here.

“It is here that you can claim what He has promised you.

“It is here that you become like him.”

“Child . . . shhh . . . be still.

“Don’t run from this place.

“Here, where you are weak and humble, God blesses you with Himself.”

I looked up the word “blessed” in Strong’s concordance. It is defined, “happy/to be envied”.

It seems to me that those of Jesus’s disciples who are beat up and bent over are not to be pitied. Perhaps, instead, they are to be envied.

The Beattitudes can be found in Matthew 5:1-10 and Luke 6:17-21.

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The Beat Up and Bent Over

My biggest problem with going to church is deciding what to wear.

Do I wear the pants that are too tight? Not for another 5+ pounds.

Can’t wear the pants that fit. They’ve been in the dirty clothes basket for the last three weeks.

Maybe the dress I bought three years ago thinking that I might someday need to wear a dress? Nope, I never bought shoes to match it.

I stand at the closet door in an indecisive daze.

My husband, who got tired of waiting in line the day God gave out patience, rolls his eyes and reminds me that Jesus doesn’t care what I wear to church.

I roll my eyes back and tell him that I’m not worried about what Jesus will think.

I quit dressing up for him a long time ago.

I hope I am never again among the people who put on their best to meet God. That’s way too much pressure. Gotta keep it clean. Gotta hide the fact that it doesn’t really fit. Gotta walk straight and tall to ensure it doesn’t drag in the dirt.

Those people miss Jesus . . . the ones who walk straight and tall in their best.

There was a crowd of them in Capernaum one day. They walked beside Jesus and never knew He was there. They met him on the road and didn’t see him. They were walking tall with their eyes straight ahead.

But not her.

Let me tell you her story:

For 12 years, she had lived with a shameful disease. It caused her to be always weak and tired and then it separated her from anyone who would care.

The sickness was her own fault. That’s what the doctors and the priests said. She had committed a sin that angered God and He had cursed her body and caused it to bleed continually. She believed them, of course. The priests could not be wrong.

The blood flow made her unacceptable in her community. Cultural rules decreed that no one could have physical contact with her without adverse consequences.

If she had a husband, he had not, in all those years, kissed her goodnight or touched her hand while they watched the sunset or held her when the disease took all her energy. If she did not yet have a husband, the disease determined that she never would.

If she had children, they had not, in all those years, kissed her good morning or sat in her lap while she told them a story or fallen asleep on her shoulder. If she did not yet have children, the disease determined that she never would.

In all those years, she had not wrestled with a brother or felt her sister brush her hair or hugged a friend.

In the first years, she fought the disease. She ranted and cried and searched for a cure.

But ranting, crying and searching required energy and eventually hers was gone. The disease took her physical strength. The condemning accusations of sin broke her spirit. The terrible loneliness dried up her heart.

After 12 years, there wasn’t enough of her left even to hope.

Then, she heard about Jesus.

Maybe she heard about him from the blind man He healed or the leper He touched. Or, maybe, it was from the adulterous woman He stooped to help.

Somehow she heard.

And, in him, she hoped again.

Hope squeezed itself into her heart and whispered that if she could find Jesus, she would be healed. And hope fueled her with enough strength to walk the road to Capernaum that day.

When she found Jesus, He was surrounded by people on the road. She couldn’t let them see her face. If any of them recognized her, she could be stoned for approaching them. If Jesus looked at her, he would know that she was bad inside. He would see that sin . . . the one that caused her curse . . . and He would withhold healing. She was sure of it.

So she approached them from behind. She pushed her way through the crowd, bruising her fragile body with every step. When she finally saw Jesus, she reached out with faith and touched the back of his garment.

She knew immediately that the bleeding had stopped; that she was healed. In that moment, she also realized that the man she had unlawfully touched was, indeed, the Son of God. She turned quickly to leave before someone realized what she had done.

But, Jesus knew. He knew she had touched him for healing. He also knew that if she left, she would miss the best of what He could give her.

Jesus stopped and looked around. He asked who had touched him.

She was afraid to answer. Would He be angry? Would He see her and know that she was unacceptable? Would He withdraw her healing?

But, she couldn’t lie to the Son of God. So, she walked past all those who were standing tall in condemnation and approached him.

Then, beaten up by the crush of the crowd that day and by the unrelenting blows of the past 12 years, she bent over and fell at the feet of Jesus.

And she cried.

She cried hard.

With tears in her eyes and snot in her nose, she told Jesus all about her disease and the constant fatigue and the awful loneliness and the cruel accusations and the hope that He would heal her.

Jesus smiled.

She closed her eyes and opened them again.

He was still smiling.

He looked into her eyes with a resolve that exposed all the fragments of her soul to him.

And He smiled!

He wasn’t angry with her. He was pleased with her faith!

Something inside her stirred for the first time in years. His pleasure put new life in her worn-out heart.

Jesus did not come to mankind to heal diseases and afflictions. Those were meant to be signs and testimonies to his power. He came to bind up the wounds of the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and to open the prisons of those that are bound.

She had come to him in secret desperation. She intended to walk away having taken only the power to heal her body.

But Jesus called her back to give her more.

What a terrible waste it would have been, if she had walked away from Jesus with a healthy body but without the opportunity to look into the face of God.

And while looking into the face of God, to see that He found her acceptable.

That is the blessing of the beat up and bent over.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matt. 5:3)

This story can be found in the fifth chapter of Mark. It has been embellished with information gathered from researching the Jewish culture during the time of Jesus.

Background verses: Isaiah 61:1; John 10:10 and John 10:25.

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