Do you ever find yourself getting frustrated about your lot in life and saying, “Hey – I deserve better than this! Just once I’d like to get what I deserve in life!”
Not me. Not anymore. I don’t want what I deserve. I want grace and mercy. Grace says, “You don’t deserve all the blessings in your life, but I’m going to give them to you anyway.” Mercy says, “You deserve punishment and wrath, but I’m going to give you forgiveness, love and abundant life.”
So I say, “Bring on the grace and mercy!”
The other day, I was thinking about a big slice of mercy I received last year. Just three weeks after buying a brand new car, I had an unfortunate encounter with the back end of another car at the post office. The other driver and I were both pulling out of parking spaces and sadly ended up on the same piece of pavement at precisely the same time. It wasn’t pretty.
Being well trained not to “be a bother,” I agreed that we didn’t need to call a policeman to the scene of our mishap. We simply traded insurance info and went on our respective ways. Weeks of hassles and phone calls followed and I was not optimistic that the situation could be resolved without a significant outlay of cash on my part.
I relived the fender-bender over and over in my brain, wishing that I’d hit a few more red lights on my way to the post office, or that the line there had been a little slower – anything so that I wouldn’t have been pulling out of my parking spot exactly when I did.
When the whole accident mess was resolved, something truly amazing happened – I didn’t owe anybody any money. To this day, I’m not sure what happened, but when you get a statement that says you don’t owe any money, you don’t ask why. You just appreciate. And I did. Boy howdy, I did. I just thanked my insurance agent and God for delivering me out of a mess I had gotten myself into.
Can you relate? Have you ever been spared consequences you deserved? Often, we do reap what we sow, but every once in awhile, we don’t. I spell that M-E-R-C-Y, and it’s one of God’s specialties.
There’s a wonderful example of God’s mercy in the book of Joshua. The Israelites were moving into their Promised Land and God told them not to make any peace treaties with the folks who lived there. But a sneaky group of Gibeonites tricked the children of Israel into signing a treaty with them.
A short time later, those rascally Gibeonites were attacked and they called upon their “covenant partners,” the Israelites, to come to their rescue. Don’t you know that ticked off the Israelites? They realized they had been tricked into this covenant, but they knew they were bound by it. And the Israelites weren’t exactly innocent in the matter – the Bible says they erred greatly when they signed the treaty without “inquiring of the Lord.”
So the Israelites had to help defend the Gibeonites. In fact, they had to march all night and then fight a tough battle that raged throughout the next day. Joshua and the Israelites needed some extra daylight to finish off their enemies, so God came through with Grade A miracle – he made the sun stand still for awhile – long enough to give the Israelite army the victory.
That was mercy. The Israelites had gotten themselves into a jam by their own arrogance and impetuousness – not consulting the Lord before they made a treaty with the Gibeonites. But God didn’t lean down from heaven and shout, “You got yourself into this, now you get yourselves out!” No, He had compassion on His children when they cried out to Him in humility and desperation.
And sometimes, He’ll still do that today. If you’ve blown it, humble yourself and cry out to Him. He can make the sun stand still if that’s what is needed. He can even work in and through insurance companies to deliver His mercy to us. He sees; He knows; and He always acts for our good and His glory.
Psalm 28:6 -- “Praise be to the LORD, for he has heard my cry for mercy.”
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Best Medicine
Remember the good old days when there were no commercials on T.V. for prescription drugs? Now we can hardly get through a single program without being badgered to run to our doctors for some kind of wonder pill. I think it’s interesting to observe how the marketing experts place pharmaceutical ads on T.V. Heavy dramas are likely to be loaded with pitches for medicines treating insomnia, depression and anxiety. It occurs to me that turning off these gut-wrenching, emotion-twisting programs might be a more effective treatment for these afflictions than any drug on the market.
During sports telecasts, we are assaulted by pharmaceutical commercials that are designed especially for … well, for men. I’ll leave it at that, but believe me, these ads can make you blush and squirm if you’re remotely modest and anyone else is in the room. I’m nearly overcome with an urge to hurl the remote control at my T.V. and scream, “WAY too much information!” Instead, I fumble for the “mute” button and try not to read lips. Ignorance is not always bliss, but in this case, I think it might be.
Sports shows are also laced with ads for products that treat conditions like high blood pressure and high cholesterol. It’s possible that turning off the commercials, putting the Fritoes back in the pantry, prying ourselves out of our recliners and taking our bodies to the gym might just render some of these medications unnecessary.
Drug commercials are a real study in human psychology. They’re full of warm and fuzzy images, designed to convince us that we’re only one prescription away from a magnificent life. The hitch comes at the end of the commercials, when advertisers are required to list any possible negative side effects. Just when we are feeling like yes, this medication WILL help us fulfill our destinies in life, a frenzied voice machine-guns the warnings: “ … an increased risk of blood clots … nausea and vomiting … sleeplessness … headaches … blurred vision … dizziness … fatigue” and so forth and so on. What a list! It sounds like God’s Old Testament plagues on the Egyptians!
Sure, these hideous side effects may rarely occur, but they are obviously very possible. Once the announcer starts reciting this list, the warm fuzzies evaporate and I realize I’d have to be knocking on death’s door to take a medicine that could bring on such a disgusting array of potential afflictions.
The Bible contains more than a few “prescriptions,” too, but they don’t have any nasty side effects. God’s “medicine” is always potent and life-giving.
When God says, “Don’t … ,” He’s always saying, “Don’t do this because it will ultimately hurt you.” And oh, the pain we could avoid if we heeded His prescription and steered clear of poisons like dishonesty, selfishness, greed, rage, adultery, and addictions.
When God says, “Do … ,” He’s always saying, “Do this and be blessed.” And how blessed we would be if we followed His prescription for large doses of love, honesty, faith, peace, joy, patience, self-control, hope, kindness, honor, contentment and selflessness.
I’m all for “better living through pharmaceuticals” when medications are necessary. But God has plenty of good medicine available, too, and when you swallow His “pills,” you don’t have to feel like a time bomb waiting to explode with side effects that might be worse than the condition you’re trying to treat.
God’s truth is just plain good for whatever ails you, whether your afflictions are spiritual, physical, emotional, relational, or even financial. His Word and His principles work all the time, in every case, without any scary fine print. And they won’t ever be taken off the market.
Some medicines can enhance our lives, but only God’s medicine IS life. And here’s the prescription, free of charge: “Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and shun evil.This will bring health to your body and nourishment to your bones.” (Proverbs 3:7-8)
During sports telecasts, we are assaulted by pharmaceutical commercials that are designed especially for … well, for men. I’ll leave it at that, but believe me, these ads can make you blush and squirm if you’re remotely modest and anyone else is in the room. I’m nearly overcome with an urge to hurl the remote control at my T.V. and scream, “WAY too much information!” Instead, I fumble for the “mute” button and try not to read lips. Ignorance is not always bliss, but in this case, I think it might be.
Sports shows are also laced with ads for products that treat conditions like high blood pressure and high cholesterol. It’s possible that turning off the commercials, putting the Fritoes back in the pantry, prying ourselves out of our recliners and taking our bodies to the gym might just render some of these medications unnecessary.
Drug commercials are a real study in human psychology. They’re full of warm and fuzzy images, designed to convince us that we’re only one prescription away from a magnificent life. The hitch comes at the end of the commercials, when advertisers are required to list any possible negative side effects. Just when we are feeling like yes, this medication WILL help us fulfill our destinies in life, a frenzied voice machine-guns the warnings: “ … an increased risk of blood clots … nausea and vomiting … sleeplessness … headaches … blurred vision … dizziness … fatigue” and so forth and so on. What a list! It sounds like God’s Old Testament plagues on the Egyptians!
Sure, these hideous side effects may rarely occur, but they are obviously very possible. Once the announcer starts reciting this list, the warm fuzzies evaporate and I realize I’d have to be knocking on death’s door to take a medicine that could bring on such a disgusting array of potential afflictions.
The Bible contains more than a few “prescriptions,” too, but they don’t have any nasty side effects. God’s “medicine” is always potent and life-giving.
When God says, “Don’t … ,” He’s always saying, “Don’t do this because it will ultimately hurt you.” And oh, the pain we could avoid if we heeded His prescription and steered clear of poisons like dishonesty, selfishness, greed, rage, adultery, and addictions.
When God says, “Do … ,” He’s always saying, “Do this and be blessed.” And how blessed we would be if we followed His prescription for large doses of love, honesty, faith, peace, joy, patience, self-control, hope, kindness, honor, contentment and selflessness.
I’m all for “better living through pharmaceuticals” when medications are necessary. But God has plenty of good medicine available, too, and when you swallow His “pills,” you don’t have to feel like a time bomb waiting to explode with side effects that might be worse than the condition you’re trying to treat.
God’s truth is just plain good for whatever ails you, whether your afflictions are spiritual, physical, emotional, relational, or even financial. His Word and His principles work all the time, in every case, without any scary fine print. And they won’t ever be taken off the market.
Some medicines can enhance our lives, but only God’s medicine IS life. And here’s the prescription, free of charge: “Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and shun evil.This will bring health to your body and nourishment to your bones.” (Proverbs 3:7-8)
A "Paper Daddy" is a Poor Substitute
When my sons were young and required much maintenance, I pretty much hated life when my husband had to be away on business trips. Many single parents handle life with admirable strength, but during those times when I was temporarily forced to be both Mom and Dad, my feet just didn’t feel big enough to fill both pairs of shoes.
There are some essential parental roles I’m not very good at – one is the Fixer of Broken Things. I can pump my own gas and change light bulbs, but when my husband is gone, well, we just pray that all things mechanical and electrical don’t break down.
I am also woefully ill-equipped to be the Cleaner-Upper of Gross Domestic Mishaps. Once when Joe was out of town for a week, one of my sons came down with a stomach bug in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, it was the son who was sleeping on the top bunk. Can anybody say, “Niagra Falls?”
Knowing that my steel-stomached husband could not ride up on his white horse to rescue me from this disgusting catastrophe, I prayed for Jesus to come back. He didn’t.
A friend told me that several years ago, her husband had to go on a business trip that kept him away from home for three weeks. Their daughters missed him terribly and one day, the oldest little girl appeared carrying a paper cut-out of a man just about as big as she was. She announced, “Look! I made a Paper Daddy. Let’s fix him a plate of food.”
So, they did, and for the next few weeks, Paper Daddy sat at the table during meals, watched T.V., and generally became an honored member of the family.
Of course, Paper Daddy was a poor substitute for the real thing. He couldn’t hug, snuggle, read stories, or give piggy-back rides. He was cold and fragile and lifeless.
And so it is with the “Paper Daddies” we make. In the absence of a real relationship with our Heavenly Father, many of us fashion a pitiful substitute, a Paper God of sorts.
Sometimes our Paper God looks a bit like Santa Claus, a jolly old soul who in the end, we imagine, will smile and usher us all into Heaven, saying, “Oh, y’all come on in – I didn’t really mean all that stuff about hell.” This cardboard deity doesn’t bear much resemblance to the God of the Bible, but he makes us feel good, and we’re all about feeling good.
Sometimes our Paper God looks just like us because, in fact, we have become our own gods. We worship and trust in our own abilities and resources, and pretty much focus our energies on pleasing ourselves.
Paper Gods can look like anything – bank accounts, powerful positions, material possessions, other people. It’s so easy and tempting to get out the paper and scissors and form something to worship.
But what happens when the medical tests come back and the diagnosis is cancer? Or when we find out our teenager is addicted to drugs? Or when our mother is stricken with Alzheimer’s? Or when the business fails or the marriage becomes a nightmare?
The prophet Isaiah understood. He was God’s spokesman to the worshippers of Paper Gods in his day, saying, “When you cry out for help, let your collection of idols save you! The wind will carry all of them off, a mere breath will blow them away. But the man who makes Me his refuge will inherit the land and possess My holy mountain." (Isaiah 57:13)
Paper Gods may make us feel deceptively religious, “free” and secure when life is going well, but when things go awry, an imaginary deity is woefully inadequate. When the winds rage, I want to know my God can still them, or help me stand through the tempest. When my heart is broken, I want the God who calls Himself “the God of all hope,” the Wonderful Counselor and Comforter.
The true God may not always act exactly when and how we want Him to act, but He’s God … and we are not. He knows us intimately, loves us passionately, and He never, ever fails or changes.
When I need a refuge, I don’t want one made of paper. Paper wilts in a storm. I want a rock, and that rock is Jesus.
“For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God?” -- Psalm 18:31
“But the LORD has become my fortress, and my God the rock in whom I take refuge.” -- Psalm 94:22
There are some essential parental roles I’m not very good at – one is the Fixer of Broken Things. I can pump my own gas and change light bulbs, but when my husband is gone, well, we just pray that all things mechanical and electrical don’t break down.
I am also woefully ill-equipped to be the Cleaner-Upper of Gross Domestic Mishaps. Once when Joe was out of town for a week, one of my sons came down with a stomach bug in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, it was the son who was sleeping on the top bunk. Can anybody say, “Niagra Falls?”
Knowing that my steel-stomached husband could not ride up on his white horse to rescue me from this disgusting catastrophe, I prayed for Jesus to come back. He didn’t.
A friend told me that several years ago, her husband had to go on a business trip that kept him away from home for three weeks. Their daughters missed him terribly and one day, the oldest little girl appeared carrying a paper cut-out of a man just about as big as she was. She announced, “Look! I made a Paper Daddy. Let’s fix him a plate of food.”
So, they did, and for the next few weeks, Paper Daddy sat at the table during meals, watched T.V., and generally became an honored member of the family.
Of course, Paper Daddy was a poor substitute for the real thing. He couldn’t hug, snuggle, read stories, or give piggy-back rides. He was cold and fragile and lifeless.
And so it is with the “Paper Daddies” we make. In the absence of a real relationship with our Heavenly Father, many of us fashion a pitiful substitute, a Paper God of sorts.
Sometimes our Paper God looks a bit like Santa Claus, a jolly old soul who in the end, we imagine, will smile and usher us all into Heaven, saying, “Oh, y’all come on in – I didn’t really mean all that stuff about hell.” This cardboard deity doesn’t bear much resemblance to the God of the Bible, but he makes us feel good, and we’re all about feeling good.
Sometimes our Paper God looks just like us because, in fact, we have become our own gods. We worship and trust in our own abilities and resources, and pretty much focus our energies on pleasing ourselves.
Paper Gods can look like anything – bank accounts, powerful positions, material possessions, other people. It’s so easy and tempting to get out the paper and scissors and form something to worship.
But what happens when the medical tests come back and the diagnosis is cancer? Or when we find out our teenager is addicted to drugs? Or when our mother is stricken with Alzheimer’s? Or when the business fails or the marriage becomes a nightmare?
The prophet Isaiah understood. He was God’s spokesman to the worshippers of Paper Gods in his day, saying, “When you cry out for help, let your collection of idols save you! The wind will carry all of them off, a mere breath will blow them away. But the man who makes Me his refuge will inherit the land and possess My holy mountain." (Isaiah 57:13)
Paper Gods may make us feel deceptively religious, “free” and secure when life is going well, but when things go awry, an imaginary deity is woefully inadequate. When the winds rage, I want to know my God can still them, or help me stand through the tempest. When my heart is broken, I want the God who calls Himself “the God of all hope,” the Wonderful Counselor and Comforter.
The true God may not always act exactly when and how we want Him to act, but He’s God … and we are not. He knows us intimately, loves us passionately, and He never, ever fails or changes.
When I need a refuge, I don’t want one made of paper. Paper wilts in a storm. I want a rock, and that rock is Jesus.
“For who is God besides the Lord? And who is the Rock except our God?” -- Psalm 18:31
“But the LORD has become my fortress, and my God the rock in whom I take refuge.” -- Psalm 94:22
The Nest is Empty
They were three years old and going to spend the afternoon at friends’ houses. I imagined them getting stung by bees, skinning their knees, running into the street … or maybe just needing me.
They were six years old and trotting off to their first experiences with all-day school. I imagined them losing their lunch boxes, falling off the monkey bars at recess, getting left behind on field trips … or maybe just needing me.
They were ten years old and leaving for camp. I imagined them flipping over their canoes in the middle of lakes, finding scorpions in their beds, wearing the same underpants for a week … or maybe just needing me.
They were 16 years old and getting their driver’s licenses. I imagined them stranded with car trouble late at night, reaching down to change CDs and running off the side of a road, or backing into a light pole at Wal-Mart. And I imagined that maybe they wouldn’t need me very much, now that they had car keys and a measure of independence.
My sons are 18 and 21 now. I walk past their eerily quiet, vacant bedrooms and my heart aches a little. One son is just 10 minutes away, but he’s a senior in college and on his own now; we recently dropped the other off at a huge university to find his way amidst thousands and thousands of total strangers.
I imagine them getting their hearts broken, their spirits discouraged, their checking accounts over-drafted, and their bodies worn down by too little sleep and too much bad food. And I imagine that they probably don’t need me very much at all amidst the busyness and excitement of their new lives.
But then … the email comes from that big, big college. The one with words we didn’t really expect to hear from a teenage boy. Words like, “I love you” and “thanks for all you’ve done for me.” Not exactly, “I need you,” but something better -- “I miss you.”
And then … the older son stops by to visit. To pick up some mail, to forage in the kitchen (looking very much like a bear in a campground), to take a quiet break from the noise of the house he shares with friends, and to give me a hug so that I know … he misses me.
There are miles now between my boys are and all the parental advice they probably tire of hearing and the chocolate chip cookies they never tire of eating. It’s bittersweet, inevitable, dreaded and painful … yet peaceful.
My husband and I emotionally exhale, wipe our brows and know that to some extent, the daily boot camp of parenthood is over for us. The page has turned and we’ll never again live in the same chapter of this book – the chapter full of trips to Disney World, Christmas mornings, Mr. Rogers and “Sesame Street,” pee-wee soccer, high school basketball, bug collections for science class, bedtime Bible stories and Saturday cartoons.
Now, more than ever, I hear some song lyrics I wrote several years ago ringing in my ears:
“… I could give all I have to give, live the life I’m called to live, but it wouldn’t be enough. All the love that’s in my heart, oh, it’s only just a start, because Jesus, they need You … they need You.”
We must all eventually let our children go and then wait and watch to see if what we’ve taught, nagged and loved into them will “stick.” It’s scary stuff.
I guess it never feels like we have loved them well enough. Peace comes only in the realization that while they may be out of our hands, they’ll never be out of God’s.
He goes where we cannot; He comforts when we’re unaware; He protects while we’re helpless.
They may miss us … but they need Him.
They were six years old and trotting off to their first experiences with all-day school. I imagined them losing their lunch boxes, falling off the monkey bars at recess, getting left behind on field trips … or maybe just needing me.
They were ten years old and leaving for camp. I imagined them flipping over their canoes in the middle of lakes, finding scorpions in their beds, wearing the same underpants for a week … or maybe just needing me.
They were 16 years old and getting their driver’s licenses. I imagined them stranded with car trouble late at night, reaching down to change CDs and running off the side of a road, or backing into a light pole at Wal-Mart. And I imagined that maybe they wouldn’t need me very much, now that they had car keys and a measure of independence.
My sons are 18 and 21 now. I walk past their eerily quiet, vacant bedrooms and my heart aches a little. One son is just 10 minutes away, but he’s a senior in college and on his own now; we recently dropped the other off at a huge university to find his way amidst thousands and thousands of total strangers.
I imagine them getting their hearts broken, their spirits discouraged, their checking accounts over-drafted, and their bodies worn down by too little sleep and too much bad food. And I imagine that they probably don’t need me very much at all amidst the busyness and excitement of their new lives.
But then … the email comes from that big, big college. The one with words we didn’t really expect to hear from a teenage boy. Words like, “I love you” and “thanks for all you’ve done for me.” Not exactly, “I need you,” but something better -- “I miss you.”
And then … the older son stops by to visit. To pick up some mail, to forage in the kitchen (looking very much like a bear in a campground), to take a quiet break from the noise of the house he shares with friends, and to give me a hug so that I know … he misses me.
There are miles now between my boys are and all the parental advice they probably tire of hearing and the chocolate chip cookies they never tire of eating. It’s bittersweet, inevitable, dreaded and painful … yet peaceful.
My husband and I emotionally exhale, wipe our brows and know that to some extent, the daily boot camp of parenthood is over for us. The page has turned and we’ll never again live in the same chapter of this book – the chapter full of trips to Disney World, Christmas mornings, Mr. Rogers and “Sesame Street,” pee-wee soccer, high school basketball, bug collections for science class, bedtime Bible stories and Saturday cartoons.
Now, more than ever, I hear some song lyrics I wrote several years ago ringing in my ears:
“… I could give all I have to give, live the life I’m called to live, but it wouldn’t be enough. All the love that’s in my heart, oh, it’s only just a start, because Jesus, they need You … they need You.”
We must all eventually let our children go and then wait and watch to see if what we’ve taught, nagged and loved into them will “stick.” It’s scary stuff.
I guess it never feels like we have loved them well enough. Peace comes only in the realization that while they may be out of our hands, they’ll never be out of God’s.
He goes where we cannot; He comforts when we’re unaware; He protects while we’re helpless.
They may miss us … but they need Him.
Sometimes “Narrow” is Good
As surely as the trees lose leaves in the fall, so my middle-aged body seems to be dropping “optional” organs each year. The surgeons in town are loving it, but I’m not quite so thrilled. As I recently weathered yet another surgery, it caused me to ponder how much faith I place in the medical men and women who render me unconscious and slice me open.
Yes, I believe God is sovereign and “my times are in His hand,” as the Bible says. Nevertheless, when anesthesiologists conk me out and doctors rearrange my internal organs, it matters very much to me that they know precisely what they are doing.
Imagine arriving at the hospital for surgery and communicating this to the folks at check-in: “Hey, I’m here for some surgery. I don’t really care what you people do to me, as long as I feel good about it all. And I don’t care who does the operation – the janitor, the maintenance guy, the lady in the gift shop, a real doctor … it doesn’t matter, as long as they are sincere.”
Sounds a bit outrageous, doesn’t it? Sane people are not apathetic about the qualifications of the doctors who dissect them. It’s not enough for a surgeon to be sincere – he or she must also be skilled and educated.
My, isn’t that narrow-minded of us?
And speaking of being narrow-minded, let me try another analogy. Let’s say I’m going on a business trip to Denver. I wander through the Atlanta airport to randomly board a flight – any flight -- trusting that it will take me to Colorado.
“I choose to believe that any of these planes will take me to Denver, as long as in my heart, I sincerely want to get there,” I say as I board a plane bound for Boston. “I refuse to commit to a specific flight – that takes away my freedom. It’s just too narrow-minded.”
Let’s face it – we have to be narrow-minded every day. We desire and demand precision, or “narrowness,” from folks around us all the time – our doctors, dentists, scientists, car mechanics, airline pilots, bankers, even the clerks at the grocery store. We don’t want these people to do whatever they feel like doing; we want them to do what is accurate, right and truthful.
Have you seen the commercials which feature characters doing highly specialized jobs for which their only qualification is that they spent the previous night in a certain hotel? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be lying in the surgery holding area while some guy in scrubs sharpens his scalpel over me and announces that he’s not a real doctor, but he did stay in a Holiday Inn Express the night before. And I don’t want to be on a plane headed for Boston when I need to be in Denver.
I think lots of people are living the spiritual equivalent of these exact scenarios. They sincerely believe they’re on a plane to Denver, when in fact, it’s headed for Miami. They are entrusting their spiritual lives to “gods” -- living, dead, or fictional -- who are long on promises and short on deity.
Many folks balk at the claim of Jesus that He is “THE way, THE truth and THE life” and the ONLY way to eternal life (see John 14:6). That’s just too narrow-minded, they say.
Know this: Your faith is only as sure as the One in whom it is placed.
Lots of religious teachers have roamed the earth and attracted devoted followers, but only One rose from the dead, a fact that was verified by hundreds of eyewitnesses (see 1 Corinthians 15:2-8). He’s the One with all the credentials, the One who fulfilled all the prophecies made about Him hundreds of years before His arrival, the One who defeated death, the One who invites and survives the most intense scrutiny, and the One I’ve personally found true over and over and over again.
That One is Jesus Christ. He said His way is a narrow one (Matthew 7:13), and that’s just fine with me.
Yes, I believe God is sovereign and “my times are in His hand,” as the Bible says. Nevertheless, when anesthesiologists conk me out and doctors rearrange my internal organs, it matters very much to me that they know precisely what they are doing.
Imagine arriving at the hospital for surgery and communicating this to the folks at check-in: “Hey, I’m here for some surgery. I don’t really care what you people do to me, as long as I feel good about it all. And I don’t care who does the operation – the janitor, the maintenance guy, the lady in the gift shop, a real doctor … it doesn’t matter, as long as they are sincere.”
Sounds a bit outrageous, doesn’t it? Sane people are not apathetic about the qualifications of the doctors who dissect them. It’s not enough for a surgeon to be sincere – he or she must also be skilled and educated.
My, isn’t that narrow-minded of us?
And speaking of being narrow-minded, let me try another analogy. Let’s say I’m going on a business trip to Denver. I wander through the Atlanta airport to randomly board a flight – any flight -- trusting that it will take me to Colorado.
“I choose to believe that any of these planes will take me to Denver, as long as in my heart, I sincerely want to get there,” I say as I board a plane bound for Boston. “I refuse to commit to a specific flight – that takes away my freedom. It’s just too narrow-minded.”
Let’s face it – we have to be narrow-minded every day. We desire and demand precision, or “narrowness,” from folks around us all the time – our doctors, dentists, scientists, car mechanics, airline pilots, bankers, even the clerks at the grocery store. We don’t want these people to do whatever they feel like doing; we want them to do what is accurate, right and truthful.
Have you seen the commercials which feature characters doing highly specialized jobs for which their only qualification is that they spent the previous night in a certain hotel? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be lying in the surgery holding area while some guy in scrubs sharpens his scalpel over me and announces that he’s not a real doctor, but he did stay in a Holiday Inn Express the night before. And I don’t want to be on a plane headed for Boston when I need to be in Denver.
I think lots of people are living the spiritual equivalent of these exact scenarios. They sincerely believe they’re on a plane to Denver, when in fact, it’s headed for Miami. They are entrusting their spiritual lives to “gods” -- living, dead, or fictional -- who are long on promises and short on deity.
Many folks balk at the claim of Jesus that He is “THE way, THE truth and THE life” and the ONLY way to eternal life (see John 14:6). That’s just too narrow-minded, they say.
Know this: Your faith is only as sure as the One in whom it is placed.
Lots of religious teachers have roamed the earth and attracted devoted followers, but only One rose from the dead, a fact that was verified by hundreds of eyewitnesses (see 1 Corinthians 15:2-8). He’s the One with all the credentials, the One who fulfilled all the prophecies made about Him hundreds of years before His arrival, the One who defeated death, the One who invites and survives the most intense scrutiny, and the One I’ve personally found true over and over and over again.
That One is Jesus Christ. He said His way is a narrow one (Matthew 7:13), and that’s just fine with me.
The Ultimate Online Connection
I think the train of life has taken me to my destination and the sign at the station reads, “Nerdsville.”
I realized the other day that our house contains more computers than might be found in some small Third-World countries. Our living room often looks like a computer garden, with laptops blooming on nearly every tabletop. There are also three desktop computers scattered hither and yon throughout the house, reserved for tasks that require solitude or serious computer muscle.
It’s fairly easy to justify all this technology. My husband makes his living as a computer whiz and both of our sons are computer science majors in college. And at many colleges these days, a laptop computer has replaced good old No. 2 pencils as the most-required school supply.
As for me, I was dragged kicking and screaming into the computer age and I refuse to know any more about the contraptions than I absolutely have to know to do the things I need to do. But alas, some of my responsibilities genuinely require a computer, so I have learned to co-exist with the beast. It is, at best, a love/hate relationship. When my computer works predictably and smoothly, I love it; when it inexplicably turns on me and sends the fruits of my labor into that mysterious black hole where all lost work goes, I am sorely tempted to bash it to pieces with a baseball bat.
I often describe myself as “technically retarded,” and no one at my house ever argues the point.
It used to be that in order for each of us to do what we all wanted to do on our computers, we had to be holed up in different regions of the house, tethered by the cords that linked us to the internet. But through the wonders of technology, we each now have laptop computers with wireless internet cards, so we are free to roam from room to room and still remain on-line.
It makes me think about a much more important “on-line connection” I have – the one to God. I was reminded of that the other morning while I was spending some time in quiet reflection, Bible reading and prayer. I find that there’s nothing like a shot of coffee and some time with my Creator to get my perspective adjusted for the day.
Unfortunately, my dog, Winston, doesn’t grasp the concept, “Do not disturb,” and he is most likely to be in his “I want in/ I want out” mode in the mornings. He goes out first thing to take care of business and to chase the squirrels from his kingdom, but then he wants back in to eat … then he wants back out to play … then back in to rest … and on and on it sometimes goes. Never mind that I am trying to commune with the Creator of the universe -- Winston just stares in through the French doors and barks and whines until I respond to him.
It’s hard to stay focused in prayer when you’re bobbing up and down like a buoy in a hurricane, but I try. And I’m getting better at it because I realize that my connection to God is wireless, just like my computer. That’s why the Bible can instruct us to “pray without ceasing.” That doesn’t mean we have to enter a monastery – it simply means we can remain “on-line” with God all the time. We don’t have to be in church, or sitting in our favorite chair in blissful solitude, in order to connect with God.
No, in fact we can be in a football stadium surrounded by 80,000 screaming fans, or in our office with co-workers around us, or driving in rush hour traffic, or getting up and down to let an exasperating dog in and out … and in.
Prayer is such a mystery, and yet so simple. It’s all about staying connected to God and realizing He’s always on-line, just waiting for us to respond, any time, any place. No plugs, no cords, no technology required -- just a humble, open, believing heart.
I realized the other day that our house contains more computers than might be found in some small Third-World countries. Our living room often looks like a computer garden, with laptops blooming on nearly every tabletop. There are also three desktop computers scattered hither and yon throughout the house, reserved for tasks that require solitude or serious computer muscle.
It’s fairly easy to justify all this technology. My husband makes his living as a computer whiz and both of our sons are computer science majors in college. And at many colleges these days, a laptop computer has replaced good old No. 2 pencils as the most-required school supply.
As for me, I was dragged kicking and screaming into the computer age and I refuse to know any more about the contraptions than I absolutely have to know to do the things I need to do. But alas, some of my responsibilities genuinely require a computer, so I have learned to co-exist with the beast. It is, at best, a love/hate relationship. When my computer works predictably and smoothly, I love it; when it inexplicably turns on me and sends the fruits of my labor into that mysterious black hole where all lost work goes, I am sorely tempted to bash it to pieces with a baseball bat.
I often describe myself as “technically retarded,” and no one at my house ever argues the point.
It used to be that in order for each of us to do what we all wanted to do on our computers, we had to be holed up in different regions of the house, tethered by the cords that linked us to the internet. But through the wonders of technology, we each now have laptop computers with wireless internet cards, so we are free to roam from room to room and still remain on-line.
It makes me think about a much more important “on-line connection” I have – the one to God. I was reminded of that the other morning while I was spending some time in quiet reflection, Bible reading and prayer. I find that there’s nothing like a shot of coffee and some time with my Creator to get my perspective adjusted for the day.
Unfortunately, my dog, Winston, doesn’t grasp the concept, “Do not disturb,” and he is most likely to be in his “I want in/ I want out” mode in the mornings. He goes out first thing to take care of business and to chase the squirrels from his kingdom, but then he wants back in to eat … then he wants back out to play … then back in to rest … and on and on it sometimes goes. Never mind that I am trying to commune with the Creator of the universe -- Winston just stares in through the French doors and barks and whines until I respond to him.
It’s hard to stay focused in prayer when you’re bobbing up and down like a buoy in a hurricane, but I try. And I’m getting better at it because I realize that my connection to God is wireless, just like my computer. That’s why the Bible can instruct us to “pray without ceasing.” That doesn’t mean we have to enter a monastery – it simply means we can remain “on-line” with God all the time. We don’t have to be in church, or sitting in our favorite chair in blissful solitude, in order to connect with God.
No, in fact we can be in a football stadium surrounded by 80,000 screaming fans, or in our office with co-workers around us, or driving in rush hour traffic, or getting up and down to let an exasperating dog in and out … and in.
Prayer is such a mystery, and yet so simple. It’s all about staying connected to God and realizing He’s always on-line, just waiting for us to respond, any time, any place. No plugs, no cords, no technology required -- just a humble, open, believing heart.
Know Him. Know Peace.
I recently wrote about my dog, Winston, and his unexplainable, sudden, exasperating fear of thunder. Several storms later, I’m here to report that things are emphatically NOT better in this regard. It has made me yearn for the cold of winter (and to hope that Winston has not developed a fear of frost).
Yesterday, I suffered through an entire day, evening and night of stormy weather with my neurotic dog. It doesn’t even take actual thunder to push Winston’s fear button now. He has evidently developed an internal barometer that senses when foul weather is approaching, even if the sun is still shining and all seems tranquil. Perhaps I should arrange an audition for him at the Weather Channel. Winston the Weather Pup – it has a nice ring to it.
So keen are my dog’s forecasting faculties that he begins to pace and pant before the first visible or audible signs of a storm. I guess he just “feels” one coming. My mother always said that when the tree leaves turn upside down, a storm is imminent. Now I don’t have to check out the trees – as soon as Winston’s nerves turn upside down, I know it’s time to batten down the hatches.
I wistfully remember back when I loved to listen to storms, especially lying in my bed at night. Such power, such majesty, such a magnificent reminder of the awesomeness of God. But not anymore. Now I’m reminded not of the infinite might of our Creator, but of the insanity of one of His creatures – and Winston is his name.
As the thunder rumbled yesterday, Winston was a basket case. When it was time to go to bed, he followed us up to our bedroom and I knew we were going to have a problem. Once Winston’s paws were planted inside our room, there would be no getting him out without a significant battle.
After all the thunder-induced torment Winston has caused us this summer, I was amazed that I could muster any compassion for him, but I did. I suggested that perhaps we should let him sleep in our room. My husband reluctantly agreed, with an expression on his face that clearly communicated, “I’m going to get to say, ‘I told you so’ when this is over.”
The soothing sounds of rain rhythmically drumming on our roof were interrupted by Winston’s panicky panting as he paced around our dark room. Then, we were literally shaken by Winston’s futile attempts to burrow under our bed. Finally, as we thought that perhaps Winston would calm down and let us sleep, we heard a bizarre thunking, scratching sound. Upon turning on the light, we discovered that our dog had clumsily climbed into a laundry basket full of clean clothes.
By now, my husband’s patience had been pushed past its normally generous limits. Out the bedroom door went Winston. We learned the next day that he had sought solace from my son and his girlfriend, who were watching TV downstairs. Unfortunately (and understandably), the young lady didn’t appreciate Winston’s rather disturbing habit of parking his hindquarters upon someone’s feet when he desires comfort. He’s especially fond of bare feet. It’s not an altogether pleasant experience, so Winston met with yet more rejection.
So, here’s my question to you: Where do you seek refuge when you’re afraid? Under the bed? In a laundry basket? Cozied up to someone’s feet?
If you chose option number three, you’re not far from wrong. It all depends upon whose feet you’re cozied up to. Let’s face it – life is full of thunder and it can get pretty scary. Terrorism, unemployment, crime, disease, accidents, broken families – the possibilities for pain and disaster seem limitless. We can numb our hearts and minds with diversions and denial, but there’s only One who can truly calm the storms, our hearts, or both.
Cozy up to the feet of Jesus, tell Him what’s scaring you, and entrust your life and loves to Him. As you do, hear His quiet, gentle, supremely confident voice whisper: “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, surely I will help you, surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)
The old saying is true: No Him, no peace. Know Him, know peace.
It's Time to Learn a New Language
All the dog books say that as a breed, shar-peis (the exceedingly wrinkly dogs you often see on greeting cards and posters) are “distant and aloof.” One thing is abundantly clear: my shar-pei, Winston, has not read the dog books.
“Distant and aloof” is not a phrase that ever comes to anyone’s mind when they interact with Winston. Affectionate, persistent, playful, pesky, demonstrative, mildly obnoxious – these may describe Winston, but never “distant and aloof.” On the contrary, Winston seems quite devoted to one mission: sucking all the attention and affection out of anyone who gets close to him.
Being the wrinkly visual feast that he is, it’s natural to want to pet and cuddle with Winston – at least it is if you’re a dog lover and don’t have a strong aversion to a little slobber. But petting and cuddling never seem to quite fill our dog’s love cup. Love is spelled only one way in Winston’s dictionary: p-l-a-y, and invariably, when he feels like he has snagged your attention, Winston always goes to retrieve one of his yucky toys.
We thought Winston would outgrow his extreme playfulness when he left puppyhood behind. But he’s nearly five years old now – 37 in people years, I guess. His maturity would indeed seem stunted. Thirty-seven-year-old men who act like Winston end up in psych wards or prison.
We thought Winston would outgrow his extreme playfulness when he left puppyhood behind. But he’s nearly five years old now – 37 in people years, I guess. His maturity would indeed seem stunted. Thirty-seven-year-old men who act like Winston end up in psych wards or prison.
Playing with Winston is undoubtedly part of the deal we signed up for when we became his loving and faithful owners. It’s certainly not always convenient and it always costs us significant energy, but Winston obviously feels most loved when we are playing with him. We would rather calmly pet his soft wrinkles and rub behind his furry ears, but nothing communicates love to Winston like a rousing game of tug-of-war with a moist and stinky rope toy or fetch with his slimy rubber bone. Play is what psychologists call Winston’s “love language.”
People are like that, too. Well, okay, most of us don’t enjoy tugging on rope toys with our teeth (if you do, please don’t tell me), but psychologists say that we each have a “love language.” If we’re mindful of that fact, we’re better equipped to love one another much more effectively. I do not like to play with Winston all the time and would, in fact, like to teach Winston a new love language – something more sanitary and serene. But he’s wired to feel loved when someone is playing with him and I cannot change or deny that fact.
One expert and author, Dr. Gary Chapman (The Five Love Languages, Moody Press), has provided a list of what he considers the primary human love languages: quality time, words of affirmation, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch. Odds are good that one of these probably touches your heart more deeply than the rest.
And it follows that each of the people in your world can also be most powerfully blessed by one of these languages. If you want to love your family and friends well, you better learn to speak their love languages, even if they are as foreign to you as Swahili.
The problem is that we all tend to think that everybody is like we are. Big mistake. The people closest to you probably speak different love languages. You can resist that reality and endure sub-par relationships, or love them enough to learn their languages. Spend time with them when you’d rather read a good book; buy them special gifts even if it means you have to venture into heretofore unexplored and possibly uncomfortable regions of the department store. Say those honest, vulnerable things they need to hear; do something to help them in a practical way (wash their car, vacuum the house, pick up their socks); don’t be stingy with appropriate physical affection.
When asked to summarize the hundreds of laws governing the lives of the Jewish people of his day, Jesus made it plain and simple: love God and love others.
If loving others is so supremely important, I might as well figure out how to do it well, and learning to speak some different love languages might be a good place to start.
Okay, Winston, you win. Bring me that nasty rope. It’s play time.
Peace in the Storm
Pass the doggy Valium, please. I have just endured another episode of Winston’s thunderstorm neurosis and I have the claw marks on my leg to prove it. Either he needs medication, or I do.
I can’t figure out why, suddenly, my dog Winston is now seriously afraid of thunder and lightning. As a pup, he loved to go out and romp in the rain, but now he whimpers, paces, froths, foams, shakes and tries to crawl into our laps. It’s a most pathetic sight.
Did Winston experience some kind of thunderstorm trauma once upon a time when we weren’t home or is he simply beginning to exhibit an instinctive fear of storms that is common among canines? One friend said her dog always dove into the bathtub; another told me her beefy pooch sacrificed his rottweiler ego, whining and cowering under a blanket whenever a storm thundered outside.
So, what is it with some dogs and thunderstorms? My son’s band blasts noise up from the basement and Winston snoozes peacefully through it all, but the minute a little thunder rumbles, he turns into a quivering blob of pure chicken.
A friend was visiting recently and she told me about a T.V. show called “Pet Psychic,” a program she watches not because she believes it is legitimate, but because it is so obviously fake. This bizarre show features a lady who serves (or pretends to serve) as a translator for pets, dead or living, and their owners.
For example, my friend said that one day the pet psychic was out in a field conversing with a buffalo on behalf of its owner. It seems the buffalo wanted to know if he was going to be moved to a new pasture. The pet whacko … I mean, psychic, was able to reassure the buffalo that yes, he could look forward to a change of scenery. How nice.
When my friend got up to leave after telling me her very funny pet psychic stories, she paused and silently glared at Winston. She said she was passing on a message from her miniature dachshund. We both got a chuckle out of that.
It occurred to me this morning when Winston was going berserk during a storm and my efforts to calm him were failing miserably, that I might indeed be willing to pay good money to anyone who could communicate this one thing to my dog: “Winston, everything is just fine. Relax and save your froth for some real crisis.”
I’ve heard that the phrase “fear not” appears in the Bible 365 times. I’ll assume that is true, since I’ve never actually counted them all myself, and if it is, that means there is a “fear not” for each day of the year. Do ya think maybe God is trying to tell us something?
Far too often, when adversity blows into my life, I’m like Winston in a storm. God wants very much to reassure me that He is in control and I am safe in His care, but I often don’t hear His calming voice because I’m doing my version of Winston’s neurotic, frantic rain dance.
The fact is, Winston has nothing to fear when he’s inside our house during a storm. He’s as safe as he can be. And most of the time, I really have nothing to fear when I am afraid. It’s just a big waste of energy. As Mark Twain said, “I have spent most of my time worrying about things that have never happened.”
Jesus wasn’t like that. In fact, the Bible tells us that Jesus slept soundly through a raging storm that threatened to sink the ship upon which he was snoozing. When awakened by his terrified disciples, He simply ordered the wind and waves to be still … and they were.
I heard a song the other day that says, “Sometimes He (God) calms the storm, and other times He calms His child.” When we pray, God may choose to intervene and calm the craziness around us. But always, He desires to calm the craziness within us. He says, “Peace, be still” to our quivering, fearful hearts.
And when we embrace the unsurpassable, incomprehensible, illogical peace of God, it just doesn’t seem to matter so much how big the waves are or how loud the thunder booms.
I can’t figure out why, suddenly, my dog Winston is now seriously afraid of thunder and lightning. As a pup, he loved to go out and romp in the rain, but now he whimpers, paces, froths, foams, shakes and tries to crawl into our laps. It’s a most pathetic sight.
Did Winston experience some kind of thunderstorm trauma once upon a time when we weren’t home or is he simply beginning to exhibit an instinctive fear of storms that is common among canines? One friend said her dog always dove into the bathtub; another told me her beefy pooch sacrificed his rottweiler ego, whining and cowering under a blanket whenever a storm thundered outside.
So, what is it with some dogs and thunderstorms? My son’s band blasts noise up from the basement and Winston snoozes peacefully through it all, but the minute a little thunder rumbles, he turns into a quivering blob of pure chicken.
A friend was visiting recently and she told me about a T.V. show called “Pet Psychic,” a program she watches not because she believes it is legitimate, but because it is so obviously fake. This bizarre show features a lady who serves (or pretends to serve) as a translator for pets, dead or living, and their owners.
For example, my friend said that one day the pet psychic was out in a field conversing with a buffalo on behalf of its owner. It seems the buffalo wanted to know if he was going to be moved to a new pasture. The pet whacko … I mean, psychic, was able to reassure the buffalo that yes, he could look forward to a change of scenery. How nice.
When my friend got up to leave after telling me her very funny pet psychic stories, she paused and silently glared at Winston. She said she was passing on a message from her miniature dachshund. We both got a chuckle out of that.
It occurred to me this morning when Winston was going berserk during a storm and my efforts to calm him were failing miserably, that I might indeed be willing to pay good money to anyone who could communicate this one thing to my dog: “Winston, everything is just fine. Relax and save your froth for some real crisis.”
I’ve heard that the phrase “fear not” appears in the Bible 365 times. I’ll assume that is true, since I’ve never actually counted them all myself, and if it is, that means there is a “fear not” for each day of the year. Do ya think maybe God is trying to tell us something?
Far too often, when adversity blows into my life, I’m like Winston in a storm. God wants very much to reassure me that He is in control and I am safe in His care, but I often don’t hear His calming voice because I’m doing my version of Winston’s neurotic, frantic rain dance.
The fact is, Winston has nothing to fear when he’s inside our house during a storm. He’s as safe as he can be. And most of the time, I really have nothing to fear when I am afraid. It’s just a big waste of energy. As Mark Twain said, “I have spent most of my time worrying about things that have never happened.”
Jesus wasn’t like that. In fact, the Bible tells us that Jesus slept soundly through a raging storm that threatened to sink the ship upon which he was snoozing. When awakened by his terrified disciples, He simply ordered the wind and waves to be still … and they were.
I heard a song the other day that says, “Sometimes He (God) calms the storm, and other times He calms His child.” When we pray, God may choose to intervene and calm the craziness around us. But always, He desires to calm the craziness within us. He says, “Peace, be still” to our quivering, fearful hearts.
And when we embrace the unsurpassable, incomprehensible, illogical peace of God, it just doesn’t seem to matter so much how big the waves are or how loud the thunder booms.
A Dab of This and That
When I was a kid, our refrigerator was nearly always packed with small plastic containers, each storing mysterious morsels of leftover food. Every so often, my Mom would unload the fridge and serve us what she called “dab suppers” – a dab of this and a dab of that. She wasn’t into wasting anything, so no matter how small the “dab” might be, it was served up.
Sometimes my brain looks like my Mom’s refrigerator -- full of plastic margarine and Cool Whip tubs, each holding a small story or idea or analogy. None of them are big enough to be considered a complete meal, but if we throw them together, they might just make a meal. Today, it’s time to unload the fridge, so I’m serving you up a couple of “dabs”…
*****
Recently, I spent some delightful hours with the ladies of the McKissick Study Club. Although I was the guest speaker, I was much more blessed to be a listener as these ladies joked, laughed, and shared their stories with me. One story in particular touched my heart.
A grandmother was telling me about her grandchildren and explained that her 4-year-old grandson has a medical condition that requires him to wear a bulky back brace. At this point, the child’s great-grandmother, who was also sitting with us, jumped in to add: “And do you know that this child’s father had a brace made to fit him? It wasn’t real, but it looked real, and every time the boy has to wear the back brace, his Daddy puts his on, too. Can you imagine?”
Yes, having just seen the film, “The Passion of the Christ,” the night before this luncheon, I could imagine – because I have seen such love before.
“(Jesus), being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled himself and became obedient to death-- even death on a cross!” (Philippians 2:5-8)
That Daddy put on a back brace; Jesus put on human flesh – both painted such true and beautiful pictures of love.
*****
My last column was about how I hate to read instruction manuals. Having pondered the point a bit more, it occurs to me that my determination to plow through manuals is directly proportional to my desire to actually use the information I’m reading. I cannot make sense out of my sewing machine manual because I really don’t want to sew.
When I decided to learn to play golf, I started reading books and magazines on the sport. The instructions don’t always make sense, but I have persisted. Why? Because I love to play golf and I really want to get better at it (without paying for lessons).
Do you say you’ve tried to read the Bible but it doesn’t make any sense to you? Let me ask you this: How much do you want to get to know God? How desperate are you to find out what He has to say to you? How willing are you to do whatever He might tell you to do?
As a teenager, I made occasional token attempts to read the Bible. I’d always put it aside and say, “Oh well, I tried. This just doesn’t make sense.” I patted myself on the back for my feeble efforts and figured God would be appeased for awhile. But I had no real desire to know Who God was, and I sure didn’t care what He wanted my life to look like.
And then at the age of 19, I got desperate for some answers. My life looked good on the outside, but inside, I was bone-tired from all my efforts to make myself happy. I laid my life before God and said, “Here – if you want this mess, please take it. I’m really tired of running things, so if you can do anything with me, I’m Yours.”
I imagine God smiled, rubbed His heavenly hands together and said something like, “Hot dog! Now I can show you who I really am. Open My book and I’ll start talking to you through it.”
And He did, and has ever since. And He’ll do the same for you – if you really want Him to.
Sometimes my brain looks like my Mom’s refrigerator -- full of plastic margarine and Cool Whip tubs, each holding a small story or idea or analogy. None of them are big enough to be considered a complete meal, but if we throw them together, they might just make a meal. Today, it’s time to unload the fridge, so I’m serving you up a couple of “dabs”…
*****
Recently, I spent some delightful hours with the ladies of the McKissick Study Club. Although I was the guest speaker, I was much more blessed to be a listener as these ladies joked, laughed, and shared their stories with me. One story in particular touched my heart.
A grandmother was telling me about her grandchildren and explained that her 4-year-old grandson has a medical condition that requires him to wear a bulky back brace. At this point, the child’s great-grandmother, who was also sitting with us, jumped in to add: “And do you know that this child’s father had a brace made to fit him? It wasn’t real, but it looked real, and every time the boy has to wear the back brace, his Daddy puts his on, too. Can you imagine?”
Yes, having just seen the film, “The Passion of the Christ,” the night before this luncheon, I could imagine – because I have seen such love before.
“(Jesus), being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled himself and became obedient to death-- even death on a cross!” (Philippians 2:5-8)
That Daddy put on a back brace; Jesus put on human flesh – both painted such true and beautiful pictures of love.
*****
My last column was about how I hate to read instruction manuals. Having pondered the point a bit more, it occurs to me that my determination to plow through manuals is directly proportional to my desire to actually use the information I’m reading. I cannot make sense out of my sewing machine manual because I really don’t want to sew.
When I decided to learn to play golf, I started reading books and magazines on the sport. The instructions don’t always make sense, but I have persisted. Why? Because I love to play golf and I really want to get better at it (without paying for lessons).
Do you say you’ve tried to read the Bible but it doesn’t make any sense to you? Let me ask you this: How much do you want to get to know God? How desperate are you to find out what He has to say to you? How willing are you to do whatever He might tell you to do?
As a teenager, I made occasional token attempts to read the Bible. I’d always put it aside and say, “Oh well, I tried. This just doesn’t make sense.” I patted myself on the back for my feeble efforts and figured God would be appeased for awhile. But I had no real desire to know Who God was, and I sure didn’t care what He wanted my life to look like.
And then at the age of 19, I got desperate for some answers. My life looked good on the outside, but inside, I was bone-tired from all my efforts to make myself happy. I laid my life before God and said, “Here – if you want this mess, please take it. I’m really tired of running things, so if you can do anything with me, I’m Yours.”
I imagine God smiled, rubbed His heavenly hands together and said something like, “Hot dog! Now I can show you who I really am. Open My book and I’ll start talking to you through it.”
And He did, and has ever since. And He’ll do the same for you – if you really want Him to.
People Will Surprise You
My favorite senior citizens to be around are those feisty ones who absolutely refuse to stay in any kind of “old people” box and who have a mischievous twinkle in their eye that grows more brilliant with each birthday.
I was recently privileged to participate in a weekend retreat with women ranging in age from 20-something to 70-something. On the first night, we played one of those ice-breaker, get-to-know-you games. We were all seated in a circle and I was next to a lady who, shall we say, was more advanced in years than I and whom I will call Thelma (absolutely not her real name).
The icebreaker game was not socially awkward, as so many tend to be (i.e., we were not instructed to approach five total strangers and in the span of 30 seconds, persuade them to tell us the three most heinous sins they’ve ever committed). The moderator simply began by asking everyone to write down answers to three questions: What is your favorite movie, your favorite Bible story, and your favorite food?
When it came time to go around the room and share our answers to the movie question, Thelma surprised me with her answer: “Gladiator,” the award-winning but somewhat gory film about the horrific favorite spectator sport in ancient Rome.
I looked at her and said, “No way.” She said, “Oh yea – I love that movie.”
Now it was time to reveal our favorite Bible story. Predictable responses came from all over the room -- Noah’s ark, David and Goliath, Jonah and the whale, Jesus multiplying the fish and loaves to feed the multitudes. Then came Thelma’s answer: “David and Bathsheba.”
“Okay, Thelma is one saucy chick,” I thought, laughing out loud with the rest of the group at her irrrepressible spunk.
Then came the favorite food question. Lasagna, ice cream, pizza, steak, chocolate, chocolate and more chocolate, came the answers.
“Milk,” said Thelma. By this time, I was sure her answer would be buffalo burgers, raw oysters, tofu or something equally over the edge.
“Milk?” I turned and asked her. “Of all the food in the world, that’s your favorite?”
“Yea,” she answered. “I just love milk.”
I had a mental image of Thelma sitting in her recliner, watching “Gladiator” and drinking milk, with the story of David and Bathsheba open on her lap. The image made me chuckle. And it blew away some presuppositions I had unconsciously formed about this new friend. Thelma just wasn’t going to fit in the “senior citizen” box I had mentally prepared for her … and I love that.
I enjoy messing up the boxes people have prepared for me, too. Maybe if you’ve read this column before, you’ve decided, “She’s one of those whacky, fundamental, Bible-thumpin’ Christians.” So perhaps you dress me up in support hose, gaudy polyester, big, big hair and no make-up, and place me in your tidy mental box for the overly religious.
Here’s the real deal: I wear hose only when I have to, make-up when I need to, and blue jeans most of the time. And never, ever, ever will my hair be “big.” True followers of Jesus Christ hail from all socioeconomic levels and represent the entire spectrum of human intelligence, talent, appearance and occupations, so please don’t assume we’re all alike. Our God is more creative than that.
If you’ve written off Christianity because you think Christians come in only two flavors: hypocritical and dull, I urge you to reconsider. And, if you have one, please burn your box of negative preconceptions. I, for one, am tired of being stuffed in those by the biased liberal news media and fearful, narrow-minded “Jesusphobes.”
Like Thelma, I might surprise you. If you really get to know Him, Jesus will, too. And I’m sure it would delight Him to do so.
I was recently privileged to participate in a weekend retreat with women ranging in age from 20-something to 70-something. On the first night, we played one of those ice-breaker, get-to-know-you games. We were all seated in a circle and I was next to a lady who, shall we say, was more advanced in years than I and whom I will call Thelma (absolutely not her real name).
The icebreaker game was not socially awkward, as so many tend to be (i.e., we were not instructed to approach five total strangers and in the span of 30 seconds, persuade them to tell us the three most heinous sins they’ve ever committed). The moderator simply began by asking everyone to write down answers to three questions: What is your favorite movie, your favorite Bible story, and your favorite food?
When it came time to go around the room and share our answers to the movie question, Thelma surprised me with her answer: “Gladiator,” the award-winning but somewhat gory film about the horrific favorite spectator sport in ancient Rome.
I looked at her and said, “No way.” She said, “Oh yea – I love that movie.”
Now it was time to reveal our favorite Bible story. Predictable responses came from all over the room -- Noah’s ark, David and Goliath, Jonah and the whale, Jesus multiplying the fish and loaves to feed the multitudes. Then came Thelma’s answer: “David and Bathsheba.”
“Okay, Thelma is one saucy chick,” I thought, laughing out loud with the rest of the group at her irrrepressible spunk.
Then came the favorite food question. Lasagna, ice cream, pizza, steak, chocolate, chocolate and more chocolate, came the answers.
“Milk,” said Thelma. By this time, I was sure her answer would be buffalo burgers, raw oysters, tofu or something equally over the edge.
“Milk?” I turned and asked her. “Of all the food in the world, that’s your favorite?”
“Yea,” she answered. “I just love milk.”
I had a mental image of Thelma sitting in her recliner, watching “Gladiator” and drinking milk, with the story of David and Bathsheba open on her lap. The image made me chuckle. And it blew away some presuppositions I had unconsciously formed about this new friend. Thelma just wasn’t going to fit in the “senior citizen” box I had mentally prepared for her … and I love that.
I enjoy messing up the boxes people have prepared for me, too. Maybe if you’ve read this column before, you’ve decided, “She’s one of those whacky, fundamental, Bible-thumpin’ Christians.” So perhaps you dress me up in support hose, gaudy polyester, big, big hair and no make-up, and place me in your tidy mental box for the overly religious.
Here’s the real deal: I wear hose only when I have to, make-up when I need to, and blue jeans most of the time. And never, ever, ever will my hair be “big.” True followers of Jesus Christ hail from all socioeconomic levels and represent the entire spectrum of human intelligence, talent, appearance and occupations, so please don’t assume we’re all alike. Our God is more creative than that.
If you’ve written off Christianity because you think Christians come in only two flavors: hypocritical and dull, I urge you to reconsider. And, if you have one, please burn your box of negative preconceptions. I, for one, am tired of being stuffed in those by the biased liberal news media and fearful, narrow-minded “Jesusphobes.”
Like Thelma, I might surprise you. If you really get to know Him, Jesus will, too. And I’m sure it would delight Him to do so.
Something Better Than "Star Trek"
My birthday has come and gone, so I guess I better get next year’s Christmas present request in. Jewelry is nice; clothes are fine; perfume is okay, but what I really want is a replicator, like the ones they have on board the Starship Enterprise on “Star Trek.”
Perhaps you’re not as well-versed in the world of “Star Trek” as I have become since promising at my wedding that I would hang in there “for better or worse.” Watching countless episodes of “Star Trek” with my husband sometimes feels a little like “for worse,” but it’s certainly a very small sacrifice in the overall scheme of things. But in case you or the person who controls the remote at your house don’t watch “Star Trek,” I will tell you what a replicator is.
A replicator is way cool, that’s what it is. It’s this little vending machine/microwave looking thing on the Starship Enterprise that enables the user to simply declare what he or she desires and poof! it magically appears.
“Hot tea – Earl Grey,” Capt. Picard always says, and hot tea – Earl Grey -- is what Capt. Picard always receives -- in mere seconds, with no effort on his part whatsoever.
Whole meals are magically concocted by the replicator, as are many, many other things -- parts to fix the spaceship, household items, clothes, you name it. You just tell the replicator what you want and it goes to work for you, rearranging molecules and spitting out your heart’s desire. Like an atomic, hassle-free Wal-Mart. No roaming endless aisles, standing in check-out lines, or getting those “I-REALLY-don’t-want-to-be-here” looks from cashiers.
The “Star Trek” writers have undoubtedly hit a common and powerful human nerve with this replicator gizmo – they know that every one of us would desperately love to get everything we want right when we want it.
I guess that’s why it’s so doggone easy for those of us who believe in God to treat Him like a big celestial replicator.
There’s certainly no doubt that God can create anything. He did a pretty amazing job with this world in just six days. And all of His creations are unique, homemade, and personally crafted with great love by His own hands.
Do you doubt that? Then I suggest you visit a zoo. Look at the phenomenal assortment of critters there – handmade by God Himself with amazing colors, textures and quirks. Look at a zebra, a giraffe, a neon fish, a parrot – and at all the other people walking around you – and try to believe it all happened by chance, apart from an imaginative Creator.
I am convinced it takes a great deal more faith to believe that life just randomly happened than it does to believe in the One who made it happen.
I have no doubts about our Creator or His ability to create, but I do have to be careful not to presume upon His creative power and begin treating Him like a heavenly vending machine, a Star Trek replicator of the highest order.
“I’m putting in my quarters, God – faithful praying, Bible reading, church attendance, good deeds, bucks in the offering plate – now, please spit out some blessings. How about good health, financial prosperity, and easy circumstances?”
God does bless obedience, but not presumption. And I’m quite sure He wants to be more than a vending machine in our lives. He loves to bless His children, but He also knows that the biggest blessing of all is simply knowing Him and living in intimate relationship with Him. And there aren’t any quarters that can buy that or any sci-fi gadgets to reproduce it.
Would I rather have a Star Trek replicator or a unique, personal, loving relationship with the Creator of the Universe? No question.
I want God’s heart, not just His hand, for He is so much better than anything He might give me.
Perhaps you’re not as well-versed in the world of “Star Trek” as I have become since promising at my wedding that I would hang in there “for better or worse.” Watching countless episodes of “Star Trek” with my husband sometimes feels a little like “for worse,” but it’s certainly a very small sacrifice in the overall scheme of things. But in case you or the person who controls the remote at your house don’t watch “Star Trek,” I will tell you what a replicator is.
A replicator is way cool, that’s what it is. It’s this little vending machine/microwave looking thing on the Starship Enterprise that enables the user to simply declare what he or she desires and poof! it magically appears.
“Hot tea – Earl Grey,” Capt. Picard always says, and hot tea – Earl Grey -- is what Capt. Picard always receives -- in mere seconds, with no effort on his part whatsoever.
Whole meals are magically concocted by the replicator, as are many, many other things -- parts to fix the spaceship, household items, clothes, you name it. You just tell the replicator what you want and it goes to work for you, rearranging molecules and spitting out your heart’s desire. Like an atomic, hassle-free Wal-Mart. No roaming endless aisles, standing in check-out lines, or getting those “I-REALLY-don’t-want-to-be-here” looks from cashiers.
The “Star Trek” writers have undoubtedly hit a common and powerful human nerve with this replicator gizmo – they know that every one of us would desperately love to get everything we want right when we want it.
I guess that’s why it’s so doggone easy for those of us who believe in God to treat Him like a big celestial replicator.
There’s certainly no doubt that God can create anything. He did a pretty amazing job with this world in just six days. And all of His creations are unique, homemade, and personally crafted with great love by His own hands.
Do you doubt that? Then I suggest you visit a zoo. Look at the phenomenal assortment of critters there – handmade by God Himself with amazing colors, textures and quirks. Look at a zebra, a giraffe, a neon fish, a parrot – and at all the other people walking around you – and try to believe it all happened by chance, apart from an imaginative Creator.
I am convinced it takes a great deal more faith to believe that life just randomly happened than it does to believe in the One who made it happen.
I have no doubts about our Creator or His ability to create, but I do have to be careful not to presume upon His creative power and begin treating Him like a heavenly vending machine, a Star Trek replicator of the highest order.
“I’m putting in my quarters, God – faithful praying, Bible reading, church attendance, good deeds, bucks in the offering plate – now, please spit out some blessings. How about good health, financial prosperity, and easy circumstances?”
God does bless obedience, but not presumption. And I’m quite sure He wants to be more than a vending machine in our lives. He loves to bless His children, but He also knows that the biggest blessing of all is simply knowing Him and living in intimate relationship with Him. And there aren’t any quarters that can buy that or any sci-fi gadgets to reproduce it.
Would I rather have a Star Trek replicator or a unique, personal, loving relationship with the Creator of the Universe? No question.
I want God’s heart, not just His hand, for He is so much better than anything He might give me.
No Replay TV in Real Life
Just when I thought I had plodded through all the owner’s manuals I’d have to read for awhile, here comes something else. The UPS guy just rolled up and dropped off another new high-tech gadget that my husband is sure will enhance my life – AFTER I endure the torture of learning how to use it.
This time, it’s Replay T.V. – a shiny aluminum box full of wires, circuits and computer intelligence that I suspect is way smarter than I am. It’s supposed to allow us to record T.V. shows without using a videotape or DVD – it stores the programs on its very own computer hard drive. And, get this – you can pause a show while it’s on live T.V., go pop some popcorn, talk on the phone, let the dog out and floss your teeth, and then come back and pick up the show right where you left off.
If I can ever figure out how to use it, this Replay T.V. thing might be one of Joe’s better purchases after all. I just wish I had one of these gadgets to backtrack, fast forward and edit my real life.
Maybe you have seen the T.V. commercial that shows some guy saying something unbelievably tacky and stupid, followed by the commentator asking if we don’t all sometimes wish life could be rewound and re-recorded like a videotape. Who wouldn’t say a hearty “Amen!” to that?
Indeed, there have been too many episodes in my life when I’ve heaped embarrassment and hassle upon myself by saying or doing stupid things. Allowing my brand new car to be crunched by another car at the post office a few months ago immediately comes to mind. Oh, how I wanted to rewind and do those few minutes over again!
Yes, a real-life “Replay” machine would be very handy, indeed. Imagine it …when Mom and Dad are baffled by some parenting challenge, they could “pause” the kids while they consult a few experts. Or if Mom wants to take a quick nap, she could just click the magic “pause” button and, without any harm, the kids would suspend their animation for a few blissful minutes.
Wow – what a wondrous gadget it would be! I’ve wanted to hit the rewind, pause, slow motion and fast forward buttons many, many times in my life.
“That was such a stupid thing to say. Could we just rewind that conversation so I can keep my foot out of my mouth this time?”
“I really had no idea I was driving that fast, officer. If we could rewind and let me start over, I promise I’ll take it slower this time around.”
“I cannot believe I just locked my keys in the car. Could we rewind and this time, I’ll remember to take my keys with me?”
“My boys are all grown up and they’ll be leaving home soon – could we just go into slow motion for awhile? I don’t know if I’m quite ready for an empty nest yet.”
“Ugh – I’m dreading this surgery. Could we please fast forward to the part where I’m feeling better again?”
Alas, as we all woefully know, there aren’t many do-overs in life. Kids don’t slow down, stop growing, or wait for us to become expert parents. Spouses can’t unhear all the unloving things we’ve said in anger and frustration. Friends don’t always wait while we frantically try to find time to be a good friend to them. Accidents can’t be undone; sicknesses can’t be hurried; choices can’t always be reversed.
There is no celestial “replay” machine to bail us out of real life, but God has not left us to flounder without help. He offers love to help us treat our family and friends as the priceless treasures they are; wisdom to stop and ask Him which forks in the road to take; and strength to hang in there while the sickness heals and trouble subsides.
That’s as close we’ll get to a real-life version of Replay T.V., and it’s all we need, every day.
This time, it’s Replay T.V. – a shiny aluminum box full of wires, circuits and computer intelligence that I suspect is way smarter than I am. It’s supposed to allow us to record T.V. shows without using a videotape or DVD – it stores the programs on its very own computer hard drive. And, get this – you can pause a show while it’s on live T.V., go pop some popcorn, talk on the phone, let the dog out and floss your teeth, and then come back and pick up the show right where you left off.
If I can ever figure out how to use it, this Replay T.V. thing might be one of Joe’s better purchases after all. I just wish I had one of these gadgets to backtrack, fast forward and edit my real life.
Maybe you have seen the T.V. commercial that shows some guy saying something unbelievably tacky and stupid, followed by the commentator asking if we don’t all sometimes wish life could be rewound and re-recorded like a videotape. Who wouldn’t say a hearty “Amen!” to that?
Indeed, there have been too many episodes in my life when I’ve heaped embarrassment and hassle upon myself by saying or doing stupid things. Allowing my brand new car to be crunched by another car at the post office a few months ago immediately comes to mind. Oh, how I wanted to rewind and do those few minutes over again!
Yes, a real-life “Replay” machine would be very handy, indeed. Imagine it …when Mom and Dad are baffled by some parenting challenge, they could “pause” the kids while they consult a few experts. Or if Mom wants to take a quick nap, she could just click the magic “pause” button and, without any harm, the kids would suspend their animation for a few blissful minutes.
Wow – what a wondrous gadget it would be! I’ve wanted to hit the rewind, pause, slow motion and fast forward buttons many, many times in my life.
“That was such a stupid thing to say. Could we just rewind that conversation so I can keep my foot out of my mouth this time?”
“I really had no idea I was driving that fast, officer. If we could rewind and let me start over, I promise I’ll take it slower this time around.”
“I cannot believe I just locked my keys in the car. Could we rewind and this time, I’ll remember to take my keys with me?”
“My boys are all grown up and they’ll be leaving home soon – could we just go into slow motion for awhile? I don’t know if I’m quite ready for an empty nest yet.”
“Ugh – I’m dreading this surgery. Could we please fast forward to the part where I’m feeling better again?”
Alas, as we all woefully know, there aren’t many do-overs in life. Kids don’t slow down, stop growing, or wait for us to become expert parents. Spouses can’t unhear all the unloving things we’ve said in anger and frustration. Friends don’t always wait while we frantically try to find time to be a good friend to them. Accidents can’t be undone; sicknesses can’t be hurried; choices can’t always be reversed.
There is no celestial “replay” machine to bail us out of real life, but God has not left us to flounder without help. He offers love to help us treat our family and friends as the priceless treasures they are; wisdom to stop and ask Him which forks in the road to take; and strength to hang in there while the sickness heals and trouble subsides.
That’s as close we’ll get to a real-life version of Replay T.V., and it’s all we need, every day.
I Finally Won Something
I have a long, unglorious history of entering and not winning contests. Sweepstakes, drawings, door prizes – you name it, I’ve lost it. I don’t buy lottery tickets, but if a contest requires no monetary investment and offers the chance of a good return, I might just enter. And I have … and have routinely come up empty.
But recently, I won. I came home one day and there was a message on my answering machine informing me that I had won the grand prize in a drawing at a local store. Wow – what a rush. I spent a whole evening imagining what the grand prize might be. Cash, I hoped.
The next day I went and picked up my prize. It was a very nice collection of music CDs and DVDs. No cash, but that’s okay – the thrill of victory was enough. I had finally won.
I guess it’s not literally true that I’ve NEVER won any of these kinds of contests before. When I was a kid, I entered a drawing advertised on the “Popeye & Janie Show.” A few weeks later, I received a prize in the mail – lots of packages of some kind of fruity drink mix -- Rootin’ Tootin’ Raspberry being the most memorable of the flavors, as I recall it these 40 years later. As a six-year-old kid, I basked in the glow of unearned wealth for days.
Oh, there have been other “free” prizes I’ve collected over the years, most notably the kind you receive if you are willing to waste hours of your life touring timeshare resorts. We have an assortment of very tarnished “gold” eating utensils and a useless camera that we received on two such trips. The “resorts” looked like trailer parks situated on muddy ponds, so we snagged our “prize” and got out of Dodge. We even managed to resist the pressure when, after telling the salesman that we should not, could not, would not, invest in his little slice of paradise, he brought in Slick Vinny to apply a little additional sales pressure. But Vinny couldn’t crack us – we had come for the free prize and that’s all we were leaving with.
Truly free prizes are hard to come by in this world. Most, like the timeshare deals, come with strings attached.
When the recent call came that I’d won the grand prize at the store, I enjoyed the feeling it gave me. It also made me realize that I don’t have to win earthly contests to enjoy that unearned euphoria. I can awaken every day of my life with that same feeling.
In fact, maybe I should call my own answering machine – or yours -- from time to time just to leave this message: “Hey -- I’ve got some great news for you – you have won God’s grand prize. And here’s just a sample of the things included in your prize: peace, joy, righteousness, love, forgiveness, mercy, compassion, fellowship, hope, self-control, wisdom, purpose, eternal life, and a perfect future in a perfect place. Just come to God and receive your free gifts. Oh, by the way, if you don’t remember entering, that’s okay. Jesus won these things for you and if you give your life to Him, you get to share in His winnings. It’s all yours – but you do have to come and claim it. Congratulations and have a great day!”
There’s an eternal grand prize with my name on it – and yours too. It’s a deal too good to pass up … so why do so many people turn their backs on it?
“I’ll get right with God one of these days … I don’t believe it – it’s too good to be true … I don’t want to feel indebted to anyone, including Jesus.”
Hey, if you ask me, there are no good reasons for leaving God’s treasure unclaimed. Forget the rinky-dink prizes this world has to offer – drink mixes, tarnished eating utensils, and cameras that don’t work. I want the real thing, the sure thing, the eternal Powerball fortune found only in Jesus Christ.
As the Apostle Paul said, “I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:14).
How about you?
But recently, I won. I came home one day and there was a message on my answering machine informing me that I had won the grand prize in a drawing at a local store. Wow – what a rush. I spent a whole evening imagining what the grand prize might be. Cash, I hoped.
The next day I went and picked up my prize. It was a very nice collection of music CDs and DVDs. No cash, but that’s okay – the thrill of victory was enough. I had finally won.
I guess it’s not literally true that I’ve NEVER won any of these kinds of contests before. When I was a kid, I entered a drawing advertised on the “Popeye & Janie Show.” A few weeks later, I received a prize in the mail – lots of packages of some kind of fruity drink mix -- Rootin’ Tootin’ Raspberry being the most memorable of the flavors, as I recall it these 40 years later. As a six-year-old kid, I basked in the glow of unearned wealth for days.
Oh, there have been other “free” prizes I’ve collected over the years, most notably the kind you receive if you are willing to waste hours of your life touring timeshare resorts. We have an assortment of very tarnished “gold” eating utensils and a useless camera that we received on two such trips. The “resorts” looked like trailer parks situated on muddy ponds, so we snagged our “prize” and got out of Dodge. We even managed to resist the pressure when, after telling the salesman that we should not, could not, would not, invest in his little slice of paradise, he brought in Slick Vinny to apply a little additional sales pressure. But Vinny couldn’t crack us – we had come for the free prize and that’s all we were leaving with.
Truly free prizes are hard to come by in this world. Most, like the timeshare deals, come with strings attached.
When the recent call came that I’d won the grand prize at the store, I enjoyed the feeling it gave me. It also made me realize that I don’t have to win earthly contests to enjoy that unearned euphoria. I can awaken every day of my life with that same feeling.
In fact, maybe I should call my own answering machine – or yours -- from time to time just to leave this message: “Hey -- I’ve got some great news for you – you have won God’s grand prize. And here’s just a sample of the things included in your prize: peace, joy, righteousness, love, forgiveness, mercy, compassion, fellowship, hope, self-control, wisdom, purpose, eternal life, and a perfect future in a perfect place. Just come to God and receive your free gifts. Oh, by the way, if you don’t remember entering, that’s okay. Jesus won these things for you and if you give your life to Him, you get to share in His winnings. It’s all yours – but you do have to come and claim it. Congratulations and have a great day!”
There’s an eternal grand prize with my name on it – and yours too. It’s a deal too good to pass up … so why do so many people turn their backs on it?
“I’ll get right with God one of these days … I don’t believe it – it’s too good to be true … I don’t want to feel indebted to anyone, including Jesus.”
Hey, if you ask me, there are no good reasons for leaving God’s treasure unclaimed. Forget the rinky-dink prizes this world has to offer – drink mixes, tarnished eating utensils, and cameras that don’t work. I want the real thing, the sure thing, the eternal Powerball fortune found only in Jesus Christ.
As the Apostle Paul said, “I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:14).
How about you?
All-ee, All-ee in Free!
In the summer evenings of my childhood, the kids in our neighborhood often gathered in someone’s yard after supper to play. With crickets providing the background music, we’d play games like capture the flag, statue, freeze tag and of course, assorted variations of hide and seek.
Sometimes we’d form teams to play hide and seek – you know, one team would hide and the other was supposed to come looking for them. I say, “supposed to come looking,” because if we were feeling especially saucy, as we occasionally were, those of us on the seeking team would simply decide not to seek.
We’d let the poor suckers on the other team hide … and hide … and hide … while we sat back and sadistically imagined them crouching in various dark and cramped places fighting off flocks of Indiana’s killer mosquitoes. No, it wasn’t a nice thing to do, and it was a clear violation of the International Rules of Neighborhood Games, but we didn’t care – we thought it was pretty funny and when you’re eight years old, funny counts for a lot.
Eventually, the hiders would realize that we seekers were not living up to our end of the deal and they would get ticked and come out. They’d find us lounging around “home base” and their righteous indignation would pour forth, which just made us laugh all the harder. They almost never thought it was very funny.
Why? Because it really is a drag to hide if no one is looking for you.
And I imagine it would be even worse to realize that no one is looking for you … or to you … or at you … even when you’re really trying to be found. Just ask God – I think He feels that way most of the time.
Lots of folks think God is hiding. They think He’s a puzzle too difficult to begin solving, a mystery too complicated to begin reading, an ocean too deep to stick their toes in. But He’s not. Yes, there are many mysteries about God and His ways we will never comprehend in this life. After all, if God were small enough to completely understand, He’d be too small to worship. But nevertheless, God invites us to know Him intimately, and that’s a mind-boggling, heart-warming invitation too tantalizing to turn down.
He says through King David, "… If you seek Him, He will be found by you; but if you forsake Him, He will reject you forever.” (1 Chronicles 28:9)
And through the prophet Jeremiah, “You will seek Me and find Me when you seek Me with all your heart.” (Jeremiah 29:13)
And through Jesus Christ, “… He who loves Me will be loved by My Father, and I too will love him and show Myself to him." (John 14:21)
God is not really hiding at all. He’s everywhere, all the time, in plain view, for all who choose to see Him. He’s the artist who painted and sculpted and crafted every beautiful thing we see. He’s the very definition and source of all the love that ever warms our hearts. He’s the One who composed the music of laughter and built us to enjoy it.
Sometimes I picture God standing at “home base,” waving his arms and calling, as we children did, “All-ee, all-ee in free!” He’s telling us it’s safe to come home and find Him … while He may be found (Isaiah 55:6). And when we do, we’ll discover He’s waiting with outstretched arms, so glad we’ve come back where the love is real and the laughter is blessed.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Leave the Power Rangers Behind
It has become a Christmas tradition we could never have purposefully created if we had stretched our imaginations to their outermost limits. It’s not anything normal, like ceremonially placing the angel on top of the tree or gathering in front of the fireplace to sing carols on Christmas Eve. No, this family tradition is all about two tacky Power Ranger Christmas tree ornaments.
Do you remember the Power Rangers -- those jumpsuit-clad superheroes of the 80s and early 90s? They were cheesy, popular and very marketable in their heyday. And my husband’s grandmother meant well when she mailed Power Ranger ornaments, personally inscribed, to our two sons one Christmas. She meant well, but she was several years too late, as my boys were WAY beyond the Power Ranger stage of life and into bigger and better diversions.
But the ornaments came – a red Power Ranger with one son’s name on it; a yellow one with the other son’s name blazoned across it. On the tree they went … and have gone each year since, much to my sons’ dismay.
This year, as we pulled out our Christmas decorations, we chuckled as we came upon the Power Rangers once again. My sons, quite past the age of caring about such trivialities and well beyond fearing that anyone would think they are Power Ranger fans, nevertheless let out collective groans when the Power Rangers came out. It brings me great delight to hear those groans each year and to watch my boys’ eyes roll up in their heads as the ornaments are placed on the tree. It’s one of the few means of maternal torture I have left.
And then there is the subsequent “Dance of the Power Rangers,” in which my sons rearrange the ornaments throughout the holiday season to make sure that their sibling’s ornament is prominently displayed while theirs is hidden on an obscure branch on the backside. On and on the dance goes throughout the holidays. Quite a bizarre tradition.
It’s amazing to think that all of this stems from very strong feelings evoked so long ago when my boys were given something that seemed embarrassingly ridiculous in light of their self-perceived levels of sophistication and maturity.
I guess there’s just something in us that rebels against being sucked back into a place we’ve left behind, especially if that place now looks silly or immature. Something in us says, “How could I ever have liked that … or done that … or thought that?”
Oh, how much sweeter life would be if we embraced this principle in our spiritual lives as well.
When we yield our lives to God, He gives us a brand new, clean slate. “The old things passed away; behold new things have come …” (2 Corinthians 5:17). “… Forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead …,” the Apostle Paul wrote in Philippians 3. In 1 Corinthians 13, he penned, “When I was a child, I used to speak as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things.” Has God ever put His finger on some childish things in your life and asked you to leave them behind and “press on”? Maybe some bad habits, some bad attitudes, some self-centeredness? It’s okay to sentimentally hold onto some things, but not sin.
When we’re tempted to go back and embrace those childish ways, it ought to evoke strong feelings way down deep in our spirits – feelings that confirm that we’re way past that now, we’ve moved on, and we’ve left those tacky Power Rangers behind.
Covered Dish Suppers are a Taste of Life
Having been involved in church their entire lives, my sons have grown up experiencing the gastronomic wonders of covered dish dinners. This, they feel, has earned them the right to be considered experts on that great American church tradition known as “food and fellowship.”
Though they are hearty, super-sized young men, my guys are not crazy about church dinners. As little kids, they used to say everything at church potlucks “was green and smelled funny.” Of course, at that point in their lives, they wanted to eat cereal or chicken nuggets for every meal. Their food repertoire has expanded since then, but for some reason, they still aren’t overly fond of the sights, smells and tastes of church dinners.
One of the Crum brothers’ theories about potluck dinners is that if you analyze the basic ingredients of most dishes typically brought to these feasts, you will discover that they are built upon foundations of Cool Whip or cream of mushroom soup. Cooking for church dinners, according to my sons, simply requires the ability to creatively dress up a can of mushroom soup or tub of Cool Whip.
That is, of course, a slight exaggeration. After all, where would modern potlucks be without Kentucky Fried Chicken, Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese or Mrs. Smith’s pies? Nevertheless, the Crum boys stand by their theory.
At our church, we have large warming units where folks store their casseroles and other baked delicacies until church services are over and the dinner begins. My son, Ryan, theorizes that while stored in these warming units, all baked things morph into what he calls a “unicasserole” and come out smelling and tasting the same. While they are warming side by side together, Ryan speculates that ingredients and smells from the various dishes intermingle and adopt the same identity.
To hear Ryan expound on his unicasserole theory makes me suspect that his brain has surely been chemically altered by overexposure to cream of mushroom soup and Cool Whip. But as bizarre as these theories sound, they do lend themselves to some spiritual parallels.
Perhaps we, as Christians, really should have the same basic ingredients. Not cream of mushroom soup or Cool Whip, but ingredients like faith, honesty, trust, humility, obedience, integrity, love and a hunger to know God. We certainly have different personalities, gifts, strengths, weaknesses and quirks -- and thank God for that -- but when you get below those, you should find some common good stuff.
And like Ryan’s “unicasserole” theory, as long as we’re all packed in this warmer we call life, for better or worse, we do tend to rub off on each other. The ingredients that make up our character – vices or virtues – tend to jump over and influence those around us.
The bad news is that if you’re choosing to sit in a warmer and rub elbows with those who are on a destructive path, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll end up looking and smelling like they do. The good news is that if you’re hanging out with those who have yielded their lives to God’s direction, you’re a whole lot more likely to allow God to mold and shape your character into the character of Jesus.
Next time you clutch your plastic utensils and line up for a covered dish dinner at church, keep a couple of things in mind: We all need a good foundation – not Cool Whip or mushroom soup – but the ingredients that God adds into our lives as we grow in Him; and be careful about who you park next to in the warmer of life -- the only good unicasserole is one that looks and tastes like Jesus.
Though they are hearty, super-sized young men, my guys are not crazy about church dinners. As little kids, they used to say everything at church potlucks “was green and smelled funny.” Of course, at that point in their lives, they wanted to eat cereal or chicken nuggets for every meal. Their food repertoire has expanded since then, but for some reason, they still aren’t overly fond of the sights, smells and tastes of church dinners.
One of the Crum brothers’ theories about potluck dinners is that if you analyze the basic ingredients of most dishes typically brought to these feasts, you will discover that they are built upon foundations of Cool Whip or cream of mushroom soup. Cooking for church dinners, according to my sons, simply requires the ability to creatively dress up a can of mushroom soup or tub of Cool Whip.
That is, of course, a slight exaggeration. After all, where would modern potlucks be without Kentucky Fried Chicken, Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese or Mrs. Smith’s pies? Nevertheless, the Crum boys stand by their theory.
At our church, we have large warming units where folks store their casseroles and other baked delicacies until church services are over and the dinner begins. My son, Ryan, theorizes that while stored in these warming units, all baked things morph into what he calls a “unicasserole” and come out smelling and tasting the same. While they are warming side by side together, Ryan speculates that ingredients and smells from the various dishes intermingle and adopt the same identity.
To hear Ryan expound on his unicasserole theory makes me suspect that his brain has surely been chemically altered by overexposure to cream of mushroom soup and Cool Whip. But as bizarre as these theories sound, they do lend themselves to some spiritual parallels.
Perhaps we, as Christians, really should have the same basic ingredients. Not cream of mushroom soup or Cool Whip, but ingredients like faith, honesty, trust, humility, obedience, integrity, love and a hunger to know God. We certainly have different personalities, gifts, strengths, weaknesses and quirks -- and thank God for that -- but when you get below those, you should find some common good stuff.
And like Ryan’s “unicasserole” theory, as long as we’re all packed in this warmer we call life, for better or worse, we do tend to rub off on each other. The ingredients that make up our character – vices or virtues – tend to jump over and influence those around us.
The bad news is that if you’re choosing to sit in a warmer and rub elbows with those who are on a destructive path, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll end up looking and smelling like they do. The good news is that if you’re hanging out with those who have yielded their lives to God’s direction, you’re a whole lot more likely to allow God to mold and shape your character into the character of Jesus.
Next time you clutch your plastic utensils and line up for a covered dish dinner at church, keep a couple of things in mind: We all need a good foundation – not Cool Whip or mushroom soup – but the ingredients that God adds into our lives as we grow in Him; and be careful about who you park next to in the warmer of life -- the only good unicasserole is one that looks and tastes like Jesus.
It's Okay to Need Some Space
One of the great things about going on long trips with your family is that while cooped up in a car and lodged in confined, unfamiliar surroundings, you are likely to observe and experience personality nuances that don’t usually surface in day-to-day, normal life.
One of the great things about returning home after long trips with your family is that you can stop experiencing those nuances.
As one of my sons said recently as we were on our way home after five days of visiting relatives in Indiana, “I think I’ve had enough family time now.” He didn’t mean to be disrespectful or insulting. In fact, there was no one in our vehicle who did not share his feelings. We all felt the intense need to restore a little routine and reclaim a little space in our lives.
Jesus understands the need for space and time alone. Even though He perfectly loved everyone He came into contact with, Jesus sometimes needed a break. In chapter 14 of the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus had just learned that His cousin, co-laborer and perhaps friend, John the Baptist, had been executed by King Herod. And for a really bogus reason. Jesus was well aware of the depravity of man, but he still must have been sickened at the injustice and hardness of heart behind John’s senseless murder.
Jesus needed some time alone to process it all, perhaps to grieve, and certainly to spend time in prayer with His Father – the only One who could really comfort His heart.
But read Matthew’s account of what happened: “Now when Jesus heard about John, He withdrew from there in a boat to a secluded place by Himself; and when the people heard of this, they followed Him on foot from the cities.” (Matt. 14:13) Jesus was being stalked by hordes of people who thought he was a miraculous human vending machine. He was the guy who could heal diseases, multiply food, and even raise the dead. The multitudes seemed not to care that He might need to sort out His own thoughts and feelings.
That would have driven me nuts. I probably would have lashed out with, “Okay, people – give me a break! My friend has just been killed. Could you LEAVE ME ALONE?”
But how did Jesus react? “… He saw a large crowd, and felt compassion for them and healed their sick.” (Matt. 14:13, emphasis mine) As a side note, Jesus went on that same day to multiply the loaves and fishes for the hungry crowd and later that night, He walked on the water to catch up with His disciples.
Jesus had every “right” to some time and space – to be a little selfish, to look out for “Number One” … but His heart was full of compassion, not self-care. And He wasn’t “number one” in His eyes – His heavenly Father was.
“… for I seek not to please myself but Him who sent me,” Jesus said (John 5:30). I need time and space alone sometimes, and that’s okay. But when those quiet times are interrupted by the very real needs of people around me -- when the “multitudes” find me -- I don’t need to remember the magazine articles or the Oprah-like shows that insist, “You are the most important one! Take care of yourself first!”
Rather, I need to entrust my needs to my loving Heavenly Father and ask Him to give me the grace to do what Jesus did: to feel compassion, not annoyance, and to come down off my mountain -- or get in the car and drive 12 hours -- so that I might be a vessel of His love to a world that is starving for His touch.
Ah, Sweet Mysteries of Life
One of the things I hate about growing up is that some of the mysteries of life inevitably start unraveling. Each time one of life’s unfathomable wonders is demystified for me, I feel like a little zing has been sucked out of life.
Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were, of course, the most traumatic mysteries to collapse for me. But there have been others. I was reminded of one recently as I engaged in my yearly ritual of making strawberry jam.
As a child, I loved to go to my grandparent’s farm and eat my grandma’s homemade strawberry jam. It was the best. My mother made it, too, and hers was equally good, but somehow, everything always tastes better when you’re on a farm.
After I had been married a few years, I decided it was time for me to get that ancient family recipe for strawberry jam and carry on the legacy. I considered it a rite of passage. My cooking skills had improved beyond brownies and tuna casserole and I was ready to don the mantle and carry on the fine family tradition of jam-making.
I called my mother in Indiana and asked for the recipe. I sat with pen in hand, ready to transcribe what I was sure would be complex and intricate directions for making the worlds’ tastiest strawberry jam.
My mother’s instructions? “Just pull out the paper that comes in a box of Sure-Jel and follow the directions for freezer jam.”
A box of Sure-Jel? You mean our treasured family secret recipe for the best-ever strawberry jam came from a box of Sure-Jel? It wasn’t something my grandmother developed from scratch in her farmhouse kitchen nestled amidst the cornfields of Indiana?
Every year now, I faithfully buy strawberries and Sure-Jel, and I make jam that tastes just like the good stuff my grandmother and mother always made. But it is lacking one ingredient: mystery. The recipe is not a treasured secret; it’s available for anyone to read and use.
I do hate it when the mystery is removed and things become plain and ordinary. But I also know that this magical mystery tour we call life is still packed with wonders to keep things interesting … mysteries infinitely more important than jam recipes.
“Behold, I tell you a mystery; we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.” – 1 Corinthians 15:51. I read where one church posted this verse on the door of its baby nursery (get it?), but the Apostle Paul wasn’t talking about naps and diapers. He’s talking about the end of the ages. Do I understand it all? No way. But it’s enough to know I’m going to be changed, because when God does the changing, it’s always good for His children.
“…God willed to make known what is the riches of the glory of this mystery among the Gentiles, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.” – Colossians 1:27. Christ in me – now THAT is a mystery. Why the perfect Son of God would take up residence in someone like me (or you) is beyond ever figuring out. But it gives me hope that as I seek God and grow in my relationship with Him, a little more of the Jesus in me will shine forth. That’s way cool.
The Bible talks a lot about the “mystery of Christ” and let’s face it – some of it is a mystery. That’s what faith is about. If that makes you uncomfortable, I would ask you this: Do you understand everything about the mystery of electricity? Or why I can type these words on a computer and send them “through the air” to someone in Hong Kong? We don’t have to completely understand something to enjoy or benefit from it.
I would exhort you to humbly accept, enjoy and embrace the mysteries of God. Unlike strawberry jam, He’s way too big and deep to figure out and I, for one, am glad.
If God were small enough to completely understand, He’d be too small to worship.
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