The Angry Old Testament God and How I Feel About Him

My daily Bible reading is currently taking me through the prophet books, and old feelings surface as I read Ezekiel, Obadiah, Amos.... God was ticked!


Then I get to Jonah and read, "...go to Ninevah...and cry out against it; for their wickedness has come up against Me," and I think, There He goes again.


I'm whisked back to a time in my life when God was as mad at me on a daily basis. He bristled when I yelled and rolled his eyes when I nagged. He plugged his ears when I whined and shook his head in shame when I got too close to a doctrinal edge. He folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for me to grow up spiritually so he could finally put me to use.

At least, that's what  they told me God was like. And I listened.

I lived on the roller coaster that is religion for three-quarters of my life:

guilt~grace~guilt~grace~guilt~grace...He was the God Who loves me, loves me not, depending on how well I behaved.

When you see God like that, you become that way toward everyone else. You exact from them the perfection you think God exacts from you.

Jonah took off, thinking that being out of sight meant being out of God's disapproving mind. You know the story: God yanks him from the hold, dumps him overboard and meets him in the acid wash. Jonah decides that good behavior was safer after all. He goes to Ninevah and cries, "Learn from me! See this hair loss? See these burns?"

And they get it. (How could they not?) Even the king makes a decree that everyone should fast and mourn in hopes that this angry God might not destroy them.

"Let everyone turn from his evil way and from the violence that is in his hands," the king proclaims. The people listen and God lets them off the hook.

Meanwhile, Evangelist Jonah is sulking on a hilltop, waiting for fire and brimstone to fall from the sky on Ninevah.

"I knew you were like this!" he finally rails against God. "Why do you think I ran in the first place? Because You! Are! Too! Nice! (I can see him punctuating each word with a finger pointed toward the sky.) You would always rather show mercy than judgment! That's the thing about you!"

And then Jonah asks God to kill him.

I wonder if Jonah was the world's first angry evangelical. And I wonder if I've been wrong about the Old Testament God all along, this God who rescued his beloved prophet from the sea so he could preach to the violent, heathen nation so God could save them. Because he loved them. Because he was so unlike Jonah.

Because He is so unlike me.


"Then the Lord said, 'Is it right for you to be angry?'" Jonah 4:4

The Green-Eyed Monster and Why I Want Your Half of the Cookie

I love discovering talented bloggers on the internet. That is, unless they have more talent than me. It happened recently; I stumbled upon yet another brilliant and hilarious writer with enough profundities to elicit hundreds of comments from hundreds of followers. I read several posts before going to bed and then, do you know what I did? I'll tell you what I did. No I won't. Yes I will.

I sank beneath my blankets and cried like a two-year-old who got the smaller half of the cookie.

The next morning I cried some more, this time at the realization that I am still dealing with the green-eyed monster. I'd thought I was over him long ago. But there he was, taunting me. Why did you ever think you could write? Let the numbers speak for themselves, Loser.


It came out of nowhere and took me by surprise, because 99.8364% of the time I luuv my country-girl, small-town, no-name, nonGooglable, unTwittered, little-published, simple and slow-paced life. In fact, I normally pity people dealing with the stress of success and pining for fame.

But there I was, acting very abnormal. I said, abnormal. Friends, God did not design us to be this crazy!

Then I got a grip:

That is to say, I grabbed my Bible and read page after page, looking for something to make me okay. (Some say that God is a crutch; that is slightly understated. He is my life support.)

I didn't take long before I was more than okay. I was feed-the-birds, take-a-walk, and sit-down-at-the-piano okay. I'm talking make-the-kids-a-smoothie and do their pots-and-pans okay. 

Among the things I read was John the Baptist.* His ministry assistants came running to him, breathless, and said, "You won't believe it! All that work we've put into this ministry and everybody's suddenly going after Jesus."

And John looks at them like, "Hello." 

Then I read about old Lucifer* and what he said before he took the big dive off the high jump. I can do that too. I want more followers than God has. 

You'd think he'd learned his lesson, but no sooner had he climbed out of the slime pit and wiped his whiskers, he started selling us the same bag of baloney. Promote yourself, 'cause nobody else will. Like a pathetic waif, he's been desperately trying to gain more followers ever since.

But good old John didn't listen and I'm not either. He must increase, but I must decrease.

So you know what? I spent a while promoting others that morning. Because so many of them can point to Jesus in a way that gets more people to Him than I can. And He is what it's all about. 

Jesus is what I'm all about.

*John 3:26, Isaiah 14:14

Dirty Feet and the Radical Business of Living a Normal Life

I am inching my way, highlighter in hand, through the book Radical: Taking Back Your Faith from the American Dream by Dr. David Platt, the rare mega-church pastor who inspires members to downsize their living spaces, simplify their lifestyles and think globally about having an impact in the world.

Of the truth-nuggets contained in these page, here is one that I'm pondering this morning, in my own words (from pages 88-89):

As Jesus is nearing the end of his life on earth, he tells the Father, "I have finished the work that you gave me to do here." Then he goes on to summarize that work (John 17).

Now, one would expect Jesus to report, "I led a massive healthcare reform (healed the sick), I fed thousands with very little resources, and I revolutionized the way people think about women, children, and minority groups. I turned the religious institution on its head and defined social justice. I inaugurated a Kingdom that will divide history in half and demonstrated the way to live successfully human. Oh, and I raised the dead."

At least, that's how I would have summarized my accomplishments if I were Jesus.

But what did He actually say?

"I took care of the twelve guys you gave me, except one of them has left for good." I wonder if he was thinking,  The rest will desert me soon, too. 

As Platt puts it, Jesus "staked everything on his relationships with twelve men....(They) were the small group responsible for carrying on everything Jesus had begun."

In other words, Jesus was focused.

I wonder if being "Radical" has more to do with that than being all over the place, getting a lot of good things done while ignoring the very thing I am meant to do--the thing with which I can most impact the world.

I wonder if "Radical" is more related to "Normal" and "Ordinary" than I ever dreamed.

Where would Christianity be if Jesus had not focused most of his time on twelve ordinary men? It was they who "turned the world upside down" (Acts 17:6). Up until then, there was nothing immediately gratifying about training fishermen with tempers and thick skulls. There was no employer review or mountain of feedback for all Jesus endured with these guys--sleeping in the woods, dodging sea-storms, eating at strangers' tables, breaking up immature quarrels and snuffing out little fires of religious zeal.

Yet at the end of a day of miracles, it was this circle of ragtag men Jesus sailed away from the crowds with. They were the ones around the breakfast fire on the beach, learning that life is about feeding sheep. They were the ones getting their feet washed by God in a dimly lit room with only the sound of dirty water dripping from his hands.

I have ideas. A lot of good ideas--wild, insanely great ideas. I'd love to blog about my (now not-so) secret semi-conversion to freeganism. I'd like to share with you uncommon adventures via photo-journaling that would potentially make you think I am (even more) crazy (than you already thought). What fun! There are articles that need to be written and more things I want to say to the world. And maybe I will.

I can really get myself all over the place and not have made one speck of lasting difference. If I had a minute of true focus for every hour I throw away doing good things, contemplating nice ideas and relishing the instant gratification (feedback) I get from writing what is not quite as important or not for me right now--I'd have already published sixty books.

Meanwhile, Reality beckons and Radical calls: I have my own little group of disciples. Their names are Anna, Sarah, Rebecca and Ruth. What if I am to change the world through one or all of them? What if, while I sit here dreaming, a bonfire turns to dying embers--the one I'm supposed to gather around, with these few, and teach them how to feed more sheep? 

What if those small feet outgrow the opportunity for washing, while I strive for lesser opportunities amid the ring of applause?

What if "Radical" was right here at my side--and at my fingertips--all along, and all I needed to do was finally see it? Stop looking for it and focus?

Where is the place I need to stay--the one thing I need to write (read: finish manuscriptS)?

Where can I have the most impact?

Who are the people I most need to invest in, in order to radically change the world?

WHAT WOMEN WANT

(Warning: Sappy love story ahead....)

Once upon a time there lived a princess under the spell of the Facebook fairy. The maiden whiled away hours, wishing that someone would rescue her from screen-gazing enchantment.

Just as the clock was soon to strike midnight and seal the curse with a hundred-year sleep, a gallant prince arose from his couch, and, beholding the browsing beauty, fell, trembling, to his knees and took her hand (off the mouse). Kissing it, he said, “Come with me, my fair one.”

The princess sighed with relief and gratefully followed her knight up their winding staircase...

...and they lived happily ever after.

(Happy Valentine's Day to Dave, my gallant prince.)

                

Psst! We are Not All Like That.

Since my last post, I've wondered how readers from outside the evangelical church may have processed the experience I wrote about. I can imagine what I'd think:

Heh. What else is new? Hypocrites, all.


I don't know if those sentiments are related to how the church culture differs from region to region in the United States, or if, due to our upbringing, we may naturally assume that all Christians are like this:

or like this:

or this:

Please understand that I'm not knocking these guys. My faith was greatly strengthened watching Sheila Walsh on The 700 Club as a kid. As for dear Benny, it's more about that swoop than anything (See my post, Church Mutt.). But growing up a Pentecostal PK in the south, I really did think, for years, that this was the face of Biblical Christianity. 

How wrong I was.

See, Christianity has many faces. Beautiful faces. If Bible Belt-perception has left you believing otherwise, may I have the pleasure of introducing to you just a few of the millions of genuine Jesus-lovers out there who care earnestly about preserving God's precious green earth, fighting poverty and injustice, and/or living deeply and simply in order to more properly reflect the heart of God? I am proud to call these folks (and many more like them) my brothers and sisters (Most of their names are links to their sites; HTML and I aren't on speaking terms for a while.):

Margaret Feinberg

Anne Lamott

Donald Miller

Francis Chan

Ann Voskamp

Katie Davis

Not that I agree with every one of these on every single point.

Even they themselves differ from each other--some in great ways.


How have I come to be a fan of individuals who wouldn't necessarily want to be associated with one another? 

These are the things I ponder, the things that make me realize that I am probably a freak after all. And the thought that, because of this post, someone is going to pigeonhole me, makes me want to curl up in the corner of a tree house and suck my thumb.

Well, not really.

What about you? Who do you look up to?

The Farts in Life

Some time ago a famous evangelical minister posted a status asking his friends whether or not he should accept an invitation to be on a well-known talk show. The responses were immediate and affirmative, except for one guy, who questioned the minister’s right to appear on the show based on his past behavior.

I anticipated this pastor’s response, knowing it could be his shining moment. In my humble opinion, humility does a lot for one’s public image (not to mention one's relationships). ;) I imagined myself typing a response that I'd hope would read something like this:

“Joe,” thank you for your input. You are right. I don’t deserve to be in the pulpit again, much less be on that talk show.” And then I’d take the opportunity to explain how the grace of God has restored my life, and offer “Joe” a glimpse into that amazing grace. (I did a little stalking and found that "Joe" has been dealt a hard deck of cards in the way of physical suffering.)

But that was not at all how the minister responded. What he typed into a public comment field for his thousands of friends to see was exactly this:

“(Joe), don’t be such an idiot. Anyone with a cognitive impairment like yours should stay quiet because you reveal yourself.”

He then went on to compare "Joe" (whom he apparently didn’t know) to “the farts in life.”

This is an evangelical leader whose name most people would recognize. You’ve probably seen him on TV.

I was so shocked by his remarks that I sat there and sobbed for a while, and then off and on for the next two days. This was someone whose online persona exudes grace and humility. In fact, on the homepage of this pastor's ministry you can watch his video decrying Christian arrogance.

But what  shocked me even more was the fact that out of over 250 commentors, only three of us called the minister on his character—or lack thereof. 

It seems that too many people are, sadly, more impressed with charisma than with character.

I wrote to “Joe” on the comment thread and apologized on behalf of the man. I assured him that God does not view him as “an idiot,” and that we Christians are prone to gigantic blind spots sometimes. And then another pastor of a large church rebuked me for standing by the "sinner" (instead of siding with the Pharisee).

Still pondering the encounter days later, I asked myself, “If these ministers can be so blind to their shortcomings, what is it about me that I can’t see, that’s so obvious to everyone else?”

Maybe it’s that I shouldn’t even be writing about this. Maybe I’m trying to remove a speck in someone’s eye while I have a plank protruding from my own (See Matthew 7:3). And who knows whether this pastor has recognized, repented of, and confessed his sin, and asked forgiveness of those he offended?

I have struggled for weeks over what to do with this experience. I have prayed for this fellow minister. It’s not my intent to expose someone’s weaknesses. (Unless you know where my birthmark is, don’t ask me his name.) Searching my heart, my motive here is, as far as I can tell, to plead with all of us—especially those in ministry—to guard against arrogance.

Help me, Lord.

You Call This a Fast?

When my pastor asked the congregation to join him in a prolonged fast, I was tempted to decline. Grace and freedom, you know—the stuff of spiritual “maturity.” God will tell me when to fast, thank you.

Except, our family was facing a huge crisis, so I said “yes” to Pastor John’s 21-day fast. “I so need to do this!” I emailed my small group. After all, that’s why we fast—so our stomachs will growl loud enough to impress God into giving us what we want.

Right?

Maybe if I fast God will heal me.

Maybe if I fast God will get me a job.

Maybe if I fast before tomorrow’s speaking engagement, God will make me sound brilliant and eloquent, and by default—humble.

So I made my list of “soul foods” –the things that, for me, too often distract and mask the God-craving—and I committed to abstaining until month’s end:

Facebook

Sweets

Coffee

Movies

Music CD’s/radio noise

I had barely started experiencing withdrawals when our crisis was suddenly resolved. My mouth watered at the thought of break-fast. But alas, the almond biscotti still waits in patient repose for February’s coffee, wrapped in the drawer beside me where I write. I have more reason to fast.

No—I have right, good, and Biblical reason to fast: I need to shed a few pounds of pride. I have two ears to clear for hearing. A heart out of tune, piping dissonant chords—discord—from my lips. Feet prone to wander. Eyes grown so dim I can’t see Him like I used to.

So I fast on.

I fast to half time and nothing seems different:  I’m strong and every bit as fat with pride and I'm deaf, flat, aimless and blind.

Then I read in the place He talks about fasting:

*Is this what you call a fast? You give up one thing and replace it with another. You still find your soulish pleasures, reading and cramming and stuffing yourself full of alternatives to what you’ve pointlessly given up. Full of distraction, you’re still full of yourself, the finger still pointed outward, the tongue yet wagging accusation and strife. And what good is afflicting your soul if you haven’t turned to satisfying the afflicted soul of another…?

And so I fast on.

(*Isaiah 58, slightly condensed and paraphrased)

My Sermon on the Mount: A Paraphrase

Feel free to sit here and listen while I preach to myself.

Matthew 5:1-16 (This is not meant to be an exhaustive commentary, just some scribblings and ponderings.):

Blessed are those who know they have much more to learn than they have to teach, and who are more eager to listen than to speak. The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to the humble and the hungry.

Blessed are those who cry tears no one sees, for they have the best Comforter of all.

Blessed are those who do not need to be right, to have the last word, or win an argument. Blessed are those who are okay with being completely misunderstood and misjudged. This is meekness, not weakness. It requires divine strength.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness —pleasing God and doing His will—when everyone else hungers merely for knowledge, power or wealth. For these shall be filled to the full. Fulfilled.

Blessed are those who forgive when forgiveness is undeserved, and who recognize themselves in those they are forgiving. That is how they can feel compassion toward the people they find most difficult.

Blessed are those who understand that it takes more than an open mind to see God; it takes an open heart, offered up for cleansing. Clarity of heart gives way to clarity of vision.

If you really want to be called a child of God, be a peacemaker. Anyone can be a peace keeper. Get up and go and do and say the hard thing.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake—not for “being right’s” sake. You are not on a mission to convince or convict. Don’t take on the job of the Holy Spirit. Live righteously; if they reject you, they’re rejecting Jesus too.

When they poke fun at your faith and talk behind your back and take away your rights and don’t show you the same tolerance they expect for themselves, be glad. Many heroes of the faith have suffered all this and more. They cheer you on from above.

You are the salt of the earth. Salt is meant to be sprinkled, not unscrewed and poured onto a plate of food.* Be just different enough in your words and actions that others will recognize that you’ve got a certain unshakable hope that they need and want. God never called you to be weird, obnoxious or overpowering.

You are the light of the world. Let your faith translate into words and conduct that will point others to God in Heaven. This should be as natural as a city on a hill—living out of the amazing place and grace to which God has elevated you.

*I once heard my very wise Uncle Ben say this.

Coming out of My Funk

I've been in a bit of a funk. It was over silly stuff - people who don't read and/or google. People who don't come to visit me (which was everyone, I was convinced. They think I live a thousand miles out on the tundra, when in fact I live exactly five minutes from town, if I'm the one who's driving. Eight if it's Dave.) Of course I was ignoring the other reasons why I think "no one comes to visit:"

1. I don't ask them to. I'm afraid I'm not a good enough hostess and no one likes venison or beans (fear of rejection).

2. I need to be more organized and plan things. Not everyone can be as spontaneous as I like to be. (Fear of rejection when I call someone and say, "Can you drop everything and come for dinner in like, five minutes? Because I actually made a killer falafel with tahini and it'd be a shame not to share it. Don't worry about the ice on the hill, we'll tow you up.")

Oh, and I've been really gloomy over my lack of blogging inspiration. Why can't I be one of those daily, anecdotal bloggers and amuse people with every day stories of building fairy castles in the woods and my low housewiferly self-esteem due to the fact that I hate to bake and sew (mostly, though I think I could love it, if I didn't love writing 1,000 times more)?

Of course, I was ignoring the other reason I don't blog more than I do: No one will read it (Again, fear of rejection).

So. I was watching John Piper live at Passion last night and he said something about seeing and "savoring" Jesus. Savoring. I sat there and thought about that word. It had been too long since I'd savored Him. Oh, I'm a real good God-girl. I do my devotions (Christianese for Bible-reading and prayer). But when is the last time I sat there in the silence and savored His presence - even before I felt it? When is the last time I simply waited on Him (Christianese for - oh never mind. You get the picture.)?

It so happened that my Bible reading this morning led me to I Peter 2:2-3: "As newborn babes, desire the pure milk of the word, that you may grow thereby, if indeed you have tasted that the Lord is gracious."

Tasted - (Greek) "eat, partake, feel, experience."

Gracious - "good, pleasant, comfortable."

In other words, if I have ever "tasted"- experienced God as a feeling of indescribable peace, joy and love coming from someone outside of myself, then I should already know that there is more where that came from. All I have to do is open the book and read, and then sit and savor. Savor Him.

(And not necessarily in that order! Don't you de-churched people go getting all rhema versus logos on me.)

Anyway. I knew I was defunked this morning because I did something I do even less than bake or sew: I sat down at the piano and played this song for a while:

Oh taste, and see that the Lord is good


Oh taste, and see that the Lord is good


He has turned my mourning into dancing


Put off my rags and clothed me with gladness


And I will arise and I will praise you


I'll sing and not be silent


Oh Lord! My God! I will give thanks to you forever!...


I'll live only for you


I'll lift these hands up to you


I'll dance before you


I will shout it, I will shout it to you...

Funeral or Homegoing Celebration? A Tribute to Reba Nauman

Yesterday (Dec. 27, 2011) I attended the funeral of ninety-two-year-old Reba Nauman, who slipped into Heaven peacefully on Christmas Eve, after Alzheimer's Disease had rendered her silent for six months.

It's strange to think of Mrs. Nauman being quiet. I call to mind a feisty small-frame-of-a-woman not afraid to speak her mind. Like the time I was washing her dishes by hand, an ignorant newlywed accustomed to an automatic dishwasher. She walked by and saw that the suds had long turned to grease and floating food particles, and snapped, "Change that dishwater!" To this day, I hear Reba's voice echo over cold, dirty water draining in my sink.

I learned other things during my stays at the Nauman farm all those years ago. I understood that a forty-dollar bottle of fresh honey could cure varicose veins, and that a sharp pinch on the Achilles tendon diagnosed pockets in the colon. I learned not to waste things; spilled corn meal should be swept up and fed to the birds outside. One should never ride on the back of a three-wheel ATV on an incline. And a steaming hot bath is good for a bruised tail bone.

The most important lesson I learned though, was about blood relation. You see, I was a teenager traveling over a thousand miles from home, and having been raised far from my own grandparents. The Naumans offered me a place in their lives even though I wasn't their blood-relative. At least, not in the sense of natural genetics. But because of their belief in the unifying work of the Cross, God's spilled blood was enough to make me feel every bit a part of the family during those brief visits to the farm.

Even sitting there among friends and strangers yesterday, it felt like a grand family reunion. I can only imagine what Heaven will be.

That's why Reba's funeral was more of a celebration of a life well-lived in love for people. I'd felt it, I'd been one of countless blessed recipients. Like the neighbor kids she and Dan had packed into their car along with their own ten children to take to church every Sunday. The grandchildren she'd sewn clothes for. The others, like me, she'd offered the warmth of a home-away-from-home.

And like the kids she taught in Sunday School. Until the end, she was still found "teaching" them, alone in the bathroom, her ninety-year-old mind warped with disease. Her son-in-law would find her in there, hairbrush wagging in the air at invisible students. "Have you memorized your verses?" she'd say with enthusiasm.

I wonder if having Alzheimers is much like being intoxicated with drink when it comes to voicing what thoughts are otherwise hidden in the heart. Like the time when Reba told her son-in-law, "In the name of Jesus, shut up!"

Daughter gently but firmly corrected her. "Mother, we don't say 'shut up' in this house. Furthermore, that is my husband you just spoke to so disrespectfully."

"That's your husband?" Reba said. "Then you're in trouble!"

Such stories filled the church with laughter yesterday. But there were also tears of gratitude for those who laid down their lives to care for a woman who no longer recognized them. Teens giving up their space, wives sacrificing time to read pages aloud, grown men lovingly showering wrinkled skin through soaked Sunday clothes.

Now she is home. Reba is home! Yesterday was not another funeral. It was a joyous acknowledgement of--not something we merely  believe, hope to be true, or wish for--but the realization, the knowing beyond a shadow of doubt, that she is more alive than ever--mind whole. Soul and spirit finally, fully alive in God's love. One day her withered body will rise, glorified perfect, to offer eternal worship to the One who exchanged His life for the one she now freely lives.

Germ A. Phobe Visits Retchville

Germ A. Phobe didn’t choose her name; it was given her by the residents of Retchville. They thought it strange that she didn’t care to embrace their heaving habits, and had chosen instead to move to the faraway town of Intelligence, along the Research River, settling down on Respect Avenue.

But it was lonely living in a place where people stayed home when they were sick. In Retchville, sick or not, everyone went to work every day at the Stamina and Strength factory. They found great pride in their ability to suck it up and spread the Joy of Retching. They’d sneeze, and then slap each other high-fives for being tough.

Germ shuddered at the memories of hands and sleeves swiping wet noses. But she missed them none-the-less—every one of Retchers: Wallace and Vomit, the Hurleys, and dear old Ralph Pukester. She’d never felt more alone, sitting by the hearth in the small House of Consideration.

One evening she looked out the window and saw the glittering lights of far-off Retchville. Maybe she’d go for a short visit. It wouldn’t hurt. She’d draw a hot, Purell bath when she returned, just to be safe. Germ packed her bag with only a few necessities, leaving her surgical mask and latex gloves in the drawer where she’d stored them when she first moved to Intelligence. After all, she wasn’t really Germ A. Phobe.

Germ was greeted by the pleasant sounds of dogs barfing when she arrived in Retchville. She knocked on Chuck’s door, and he opened it, hugging a toilet bowl.

“Hey everyone, look who’s here!” he called to the crowd of purgers partying behind him. There were cheers as everyone raised their buckets in celebration of Germ’s arrival.

Germ blushed at their warm welcome. Spew took her coat, and reached into a bag of chips, bare-handed, to fill a plate for Germ. It was enough to make her want to climb up Chuck’s wall. Germ politely declined the plate of chips and stuffed her hands in her pockets.

“How about a drink then?” Spew offered. He grabbed a cup by the rim and used his other hand to fill it with ice.

“No thanks,” Germ said. Maybe she’d made a mistake in coming. Could she ever acquire a taste for cookie tossing? They all had. Was she the only person left in the county of Common Sense who hadn’t embraced the Joy of Retching? Maybe they were right in naming her Germ A. Phobe. Maybe she should give in and heave a sigh of relief at finally being normal.

But she couldn’t do it. Germ grabbed her coat and headed out the door. Chuck ran after her. “Where are you going, Germ? The party is just getting started! You still have at least a *three-day opportunity to change your mind and join us!" Germ kept walking. "Farewell, healthy friend,” Chuck laughed sarcastically.

When Germ reached her house, she grabbed the sign on her door and turned it around. The other side read, “GermAware.” She smiled and went in for a long, hot bath—in water and rose-scented bubbles.

*According to the Mayo Clinic, the stomach flu is contagious for at least three days and up to two weeks after symptoms are gone.The incubation period for the virus can last up to three days, so if the bug is making its way through your family, you may already be infected without knowing it, and should exercise caution and consideration for others when mingling in public.

The Hated

I have a heavy heart this morning. Yesterday my daughter told me that yet another one of her public school teachers had verbally singled out Christians as an object of scorn. That same day, my friend said that her son’s preschool has a policy against displaying Christmas trees, while making allowance for Menorahs and Kwanzaa candles.

I understand that much of this persecution arises because of the pure idiocy of some who call themselves Christians. And because far too many of us fail to understand how to properly represent the gracious person and spirit of Jesus Christ in the world around us. I get that. I so get that.

But what I don’t understand is how that those who seem to cry the loudest for tolerance are often the least willing to give it. And why is there not liberty and justice for all? And how is it that in public discourse, one can mention the name of Mohammed or Buddha and not miss a suave beat; but utter the name of “Jesus” and all goes silent as eyes peel or dart down into the protective cup of coffee?

Except I do understand. I sit here in the quiet hours of early morning and hold my Bible close, kiss its pages and read His blood-red words through the blur of my tears:

If the world hates you, you know that it hated me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hates you….If they persecuted Me, they will also persecute you. If they kept my word, they will keep yours also. But all these things they will do to you for My name’s sake, because they do not know him who sent Me….He who hates me, hates My Father also.” John 15:18-22

In the world you will have tribulation (greek=pressure, oppression, adversity). But be of good cheer, I have overcome the world. (John 16:33)

His words are a healing balm to my wounded heart:

I have overcome the world.

Overcome.

I am over it.

I am not angry. I am not Victim. I am not vengeful with a picket sign or bruised with the worn knuckles of those who knock on the door of justice and get no answer.

I am hated.

But I am also loved.

And the more loved I allow myself to be by Him, the more ready I'll be when the real persecution rears its ugly head, rises to its feet, and heads Westward.

We with our thin skin and calloused hearts are hardly ready, my friends.  

Book Review - "Married Mom, Solo Parent"

Some of my local friends will remember Carla Coroy, fellow MOPS mom and Queen of Hospitality Extraordinaire, who left us years ago to move back to her home in Manitoba.  Turns out she’s now a published author who’s written a book for the Married Mom, Solo Parent.

As the title suggests, Carla’s book offers hope for women who feel like single moms because their husbands work long hours or away from home, or may “work at home” sharpening online gaming skills until the first light breaks the sky.

I read the book, trying to imagine what it would be like to be a solo parent; Carla made it easy. Her heart-breaking stories of neglect by the local church made me want to send copies of the book to every pastor and leader in church ministry, and to every regular church-goer, for that matter. I only hope that I will be more sensitive to and understanding of the needs of my married friends who are going it alone.

The book’s subtitle is Finding Strength to Face the Challenge. I have to admit, I initially found myself wanting to re-subtitle it, Finding Strength to Immerse His iPad in the Dog Water. Carla offers no "fix-it" solutions for the uninvolved husband, which, at first glance, may seem hopeless. 

But that's because I'm not a married-single parent.

This book is for those who have tried everything short of divorce, because they happen to believe that God offers something higher than escape from such a marriage. With tenderness and grace, Carla puts that “something” well within reach, in a refreshing and surprising way. Adhering fiercely to Biblical standards for marriage, Carla gives readers permission—not to settle for an apathetic coexistence—but to unapologetically honor the husbands God gave them, and to expect to thrive in the process. And she shows them how.

Carla also offers practical advice in areas such as discipline, chores, intimacy, community, and mealtimes, making this a must-have reference for married-single moms.

(Disclaimer: I received a free copy of this book from Kregel Publications for my honest review.)

Potty-Mouth Old Lady

With neighbor Shirley’s permission, I’d like to share an incident that happened to her at work recently….

Shirley found out that her manager, young enough to be her grandson, was bad-mouthing her behind her back. Shirley doesn’t take kindly to being bad-mouthed in any manner, so she turned him in to his superiors.

A committee meeting was called. There were tears, and some thought Shirley might walk out the door for good. Later on, the twenty-something man towered over all five feet of the grey-haired woman and offered a failed apology:

“Don’t tell me you haven’t talked about me behind my back before,” he quipped.

“I absolutely have not!” Shirley said, wagging her finger in her young boss’s face. Then she added, “I take that back. Just now, when I was in the ladies’ room, I called you an @sshole.”

(It’s okay to laugh.)

The man turned red and Shirley’s co-workers, drawn to the fight, gasped and covered their mouths. Shirley stomped off.

The next day, Shirley knocked on her manager’s door and he invited her in to sit down in his office.

“I’ve come to apologize,” she announced. “If my dad was alive and had heard what I said to you, he would have knocked my head off my shoulders and let it roll across the floor.”

Her boss offered a sincere apology that time, and Shirley and the young store manager have been the best of friends ever since.

Because Shirley also knows her heavenly Dad is alive, and watching.

Movie Review: Dolphin Tale

I never write movie reviews because by the time I do the movie I’m reviewing is a dvd covered in dust on your bookshelf. (I can’t justify fifteen dollars for a large bucket of theater popcorn.) But tonight a friend invited me to the discount theater to watch “Dolphin Tale.” It was well worth the price of the ticket and the popcorn.

I won’t spoil it except to offer my own reflections on the film:

“Dolphin Tale” is a story about hand-di-cap:

A disadvantage that makes achievement unusually difficult. (Merriam Webster dictionary).

It’s a story about removing the “dis” from “advantage” and realizing the role of personal suffering in reaching out to others with compassion.

It’s about recognizing the difference between being “hurt” and being “broken.”

It’s about being stripped of excuses….

As I watched the true story of Winter the tail-less dolphin, Kyle the “leg-less” swimmer and Sawyer the fatherless kid, I wondered…

How long will I allow my own “handicap” to excuse me from achieving what God has placed in my heart and hands to achieve?

And you? What is it that keeps you bound to the chair, like Kyle? Swimming in circles, like Winter? And on the brink of giving up, like Dr. Haskett?

Is it the lack of finances?

The want of a spouse?

A house?

A missing limb, or college degree?

May I remind you, “No one in his right mind would try to put a tail on a fish.” Sometimes our minds get more in the way of achievement than our handicaps.

Sometimes we need to shake off crippling thoughts, listen to our hearts, take the plunge and swim full speed ahead.

The Meaning of Life

The meaning, or essence, of life is relationship. Everything is in relationship—from subatomic particles to parts of a cell to numbers to stars and galaxies. It takes things being in proper relationship to create and maintain harmony—on a micro and macro level.

Humans are also in relationship with each other, of course. Only it's no longer so proper, as it used to be. We were once so transparent we could walk around unclothed with total abandon. There was complete trust—no head games. We really, really knew how to love each other.

Then some little devil sold us a lie that we could do this on our own, be our own god, master the art of relationship without the instruction of the ultimate Artist. And we've been frantically hiding behind fig leaves ever since.

Now it's all about covering—not others, as is proper, but ourselves. Protecting the great Me, wearing masks, building walls for the preservation of the vast empire of Self.

It was better in the garden of Others, being ruled by the One who turned our faces upward and our arms outward from the beginning. He knew that was the only way we'd be happy.

But no, we told ourselves. We know how to be others-centered on our own.

How's that working for us?

Patient, He is. He came to show us how. Allowed himself to be laid bare to reveal a heart willing to die to bring us back into proper relationship. With Him, and with each other.

Some dare follow. Some dare to be loved back. 

A healing pain, that love that will not let me go until it has peeled back the last layer of Self so that I may find my true self. All the while, He covers me.

One day, when the last leaf has fallen, “we will be like Him, for we will see Him as He really is.”

The voice of the Lord makes the hinds to calve, and strips bare the forests: and in his temple does every one speak of his glory.

(Scripture references:  I Jn 3:2, Psalm 29:9)

On Bladder Health and Unsolicited Advice

The other day I looked at a woman and thought, If she could listen to what I have to say, she’d be better off. If the opportunity availed itself, she’d hear in my instructive words that I just want her to be happy. My wisdom would change her life overnight. (I see you rolling your eyes. Don't tell me you never have those thoughts, unless you're the Sleeping Beauty.)

But I know as well as you do how obnoxious, how rude, how downright despicable people are who habitually offer unsolicited advice. We may deceive ourselves into believing otherwise, but the truth is, precious few of us appreciate unwelcome instruction packaged in the words of even well-meaning friends. We can be taught through a book, CD, seminar or by simple observation of others. But the minute someone offers, “Are you open to a new idea?” some of us flinch as though we’re being dragged into the multi-level marketing of herbal tinctures (Incidentally, did you know that Extract of Rupturewort has been shown to improve bladder health?).

At least, that’s how I feel, depending on who's doing the dishing out of advice. Don’t tell me how to run my life, thank you.

Except, I truly do believe that I could better the lives of some individuals, by offering the common sense that they are obviously blind to, if only they would ask. But I keep quiet; I am not that obnoxious world-changer (Some may beg to differ, and I am okay with that.). 

Here’s the thing. I have to be willing to listen to your instruction to the same extent that I’d like you to listen to mine.

So. (Deep breath.) I, Faith Bogdan, do hereby give you permission to speak into my life. To remove the blinders, pull out the earplugs and wave red flags in my face when necessary. I may not appreciate it at first. I may flinch. I may hang up on you. But for the record, 

I. Need. You.

I don’t have all the answers. If I have gained any wisdom, most of it was spoken through the lips of the diversity of people God has placed in my life. You are potentially one of those people. 

It has been said that a mark of maturity is the ability to take correction. Here’s to more growth! Are you with me?

Lean in and Listen: A Tribute to Aunt Joy

On July 12, 2011, my mother called with tragic news: my dad’s younger sister, Joy, passed away suddenly and unexpectedly on a flight to the Philippines, the beloved other homeland where orphans awaited her happy return. For days, a single thought went through my mind like a shockwave: Anyone but Aunt Joy. In the online obituary I wrote: “Never was there anyone more Christlike in character, in conduct, and in spirit.” All who knew her would agree.

When Aunt Joy informed my husband-to-be, years ago, that her young niece had moved from Florida to New York and was attending a local Bible School, she said, “You should go meet her, Dave. She’s a real treasure.” No, Aunt Joy, you are the treasure. Anything good in me was likely learned by watching your example. (Though I do thank you for the connection!)

Here’s what I mean. I’ll never forget the day that Aunt Joy spoke in a meeting. I don’t remember the occasion or the topic, but it was evident she’d inherited a family speaking gene. At the end, when everyone left, I took her aside. “Aunt Joy, Your speech was amazing. However, I have a complaint.”

She scooted to the edge of her seat and leaned in, eager to hear my words of correction. “Okay!” she gleamed as if I'd offered her a Caribbean cruise.

Who takes to instruction like that? Never had I witnessed such humility, such teachability in a fellow human being.

“My only complaint,” I said, “is that you stopped. I wanted to listen to you all day!”

If you knew her, you can imagine her reaction: the way she closes her eyes and throws back that glorious, Covergirl auburn hair, cups her mouth and laughs, “Oh Faithy! Dear, dear, dear Faithy!” She shakes her head wildly and looks at me intently with tear-filled, hazel eyes the same as mine. “It’s all Jesus. Anything good that I am is because of Jesus.”

Eventually, I’ll get my wish and hear her speak all day. Until then, the memories of a life well-lived echo across oceans and through tireless years of devotion, reminding me to lean in and listen.

In Loving Memory

Dorothea Joy Stutzman

September 10, 1947 - July 12, 2011

The Church is Full of Hypocrites (Part 2)--Drinkin', Cussin' and Detrimental Fussin'

I imagine there may have been two types of reactions to my last post: resounding “Amens,” or the conclusion that I am a self-righteous, religious prude after all.

Truth be told, I am not as hung up on things like cussin’ and drinkin’ as when I see professing Christians (especially if they are in the ministry) flaunt those things, perhaps carelessly,  in the public arena (cyber and otherwise). For the sake of love, I’d rather err on the side of caution than risk offending someone in that way.

But I feel the real hypocrites in the church are not those with “exterior sins,” but people who commonly act the way I once did....

Long, long ago (very long ago, when I was about two years old),  I drove a half an hour to visit a new consignment shop (Less restrictive driving laws back then.). My sister, Grace, was with me.  To our dismay, the store owner, for whatever reason, had closed the shop for the day. We saw her through the locked glass doors, and knocked until she came to see what we wanted.

“We drove a long way, from out of town, to visit your shop,” I said. “There was nothing on your website or answering machine about you being closed today.”  I was curt enough to evoke a defensive response from the poor woman.

Grace whispered in my ear, “Be a Christian.” (Back then I would have said that she “hissed” in my ear.)

I then turned on my sister, and I wasn’t very nice. Not to my sister, and not to the lady who owned the store. And not to my sister in front of the lady who owned the store.

Oh, I had a point. I was right in my argument that we’d wasted all that time and gas for nothing. But one can be right the wrong way.

This is the biggest mistake Christians make in a world in which we’re supposed to model Christ. I see it happen all the time (now that I’m all grown up and matured beyond this kind of behavior. Wink.).  I don’t care how non-alcoholic and clean-tongued a Christian is, there’s nothing like rudeness, complaining, or a harsh tone (in person or in a Facebook status) to kill one’s “witness.”

This is why waitresses dread working on Sundays.  This is why we have a bad name. This is what makes us, in fact, unChristian.

Nowadays, when in situations like the one mentioned above, I ask myself, “What if this person visits my church next Sunday? What if she attends my speaking engagement?”

Perhaps the main question each of us should ask before venting any (even justifiable) rage in public is, “What if this person finds out I’m a Christian?”

And that is what I was trying to say all along.

"Woe to you...hypocrites! For you...have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith." Matthew 23:23 NKJV

"The Church is Full of Hypocrites"

Recently a friend who had just been introduced to a fellow Christian at a church service said this to me: "I worked with her for years and never knew she was a Christian. She’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever seen.”

Ouch.

The conversation was a painful reminder of something we all have heard before: “The church is full of hypocrites.”

I am one of them; just ask my kids and closest friends. I do my share of tongue wagging.  But encounters like the one with my church friend compel me to seek God’s help in becoming a weekday Christian and not just a Sunday morning one.

Because people are watching. As the old song goes, “You’re the only Jesus some will ever see.” I wonder, would someone know anything at all about what Christ is like based on my life alone?

Based on Christians in general? Ask any waitress or Little League coach and the answer may surprise you.  Better yet, ask the person you live next to, work with, or sleep with. 

Ask your Facebook friends. Do your status posts identify you as a Christ follower? (BTW, LMAO and "effin'" mean the same as spelling it out, and there is nothing terribly impressive about a Christian's public love affair with beer when impressionable kids or dear friends in recovery are watching.).

When I hear complaints about Christians whose daily walk and talk are inconsistent with their profession of faith, it makes me think some would be better off keeping quiet about their faith and staying out of the ministry.  

It makes me take a good, hard look at myself and cry out to God for change.

Encounter with a Faith Healer

There I was, sitting in the front row of a healing service, helpless against a Charismatic minister's attempt to heal my friend. I'd run into Valerie Shedden just a half-hour earlier in the ladies' room. As she gripped her walker and inched through the door I held open for her, I thought of my grandmother after she broke her hip. It was strange to see a young mom moving at the same pace, wincing in pain. Having Multiple Sclerosis was no way to raise a child.

Valerie made her way down the aisle for prayer at the close of the sermon. I followed and sat beside her, hopeful, daring to believe with her and for her. Faith-filled friends gathered around and prayed, each in their own way--some vehemently ordering the devil around, others--like me--quietly, but with authority, praying the Scriptures.

Then the minister grabbed Valerie's hands and ordered her to stand. My insides curled. I'd witnessed this kind of "presumptuous" behavior too many times through the years, and seen its destructive emotional effects. As Valerie struggled out of her seat, I buried my face in my hands and cried, "God, fix this!"

Suddenly a loud noise startled me and I looked up to see Valerie running and skipping across the front of the church, twirling and whooping, laughing and raising her hands in praise. People around me cheered triumphantly, clapping and jumping high into the air. I clapped too, in slow motion, gaping at my walker-less friend, processing the undeniable fact that Valerie Shedden had just been instantly healed of Multiple Sclerosis.

I'd witnessed my first in-person, instantaneous healing miracle. The date was March 14, 2010.

I would have blogged about it then, but --being the person of "strong faith" that I am--I wanted to give it time, wait for the doctor's documentation (she got it), and see where Valerie would be a year from then.

Why was Valerie healed that night? Was it her humble faith? The minister's bold faith? Or did a sovereign God decide that it was simply her time?

While I continue to grapple with such questions, a thirty-something red-head frolics among trumpeting daffodils with her daugher just minutes down the road. I see her on a regular basis, and if I didn't know better, I would never guess that Valerie Shedden once had MS.

But don't take my word for it. Let her tell you her own story.

Thanks for stopping by! These days I'm blogging at www.ourspendingfreeze.wordpress.com. Stop in and see what I'm up to! I'll be back here soon.

The Day the Lord Returned and Left My Brother Behind

It's April Fool's Day!

What is the best prank you ever played on anyone, or had someone play on you?

For me, it was undoubtedly that September morning in 1988, the day that Edgar C. Whisenant predicted would be the Second Coming of Christ (88 Reasons Why the Rapture is in 1988). Perhaps you remember the whirlwind of controversy his book stirred up. People everywhere were either laughing their heads off at the misguided minister, or preparing their hearts for the Rapture.

My dad was preparing the practical joke of a lifetime. 

My brother John and I went into the kitchen expecting to see Dad sitting there at the table as usual, his Bible open beside the breakfast of health food champions: raw oatmeal and raisins. But he was nowhere to be found. Instead, what we saw was a pile of rumpled clothing on his chair and empty socks and shoes on the floor. Their shapely appearance suggested Dad had been lifted out of them and ushered into glory, stark naked.

Forgetting that date setting went against our family's End Time theology, John screamed, "It's true! It's true! Jesus came back!"

I consoled him by saying, "Obviously it's not true. I'm still here."

Sisters are like that.

The Great Egg Balancing Hoax

Perhaps you’ve done it—balanced an egg on its wide end sometime during the vernal or autumnal equinox. A friend of mine introduced this phenomenon to me recently, explaining that on these two days of the year, the sun and the earth’s gravitational pulls are balanced enough to keep Humpty Dumpty from wobbling.

I tried it and it worked. There we were, marveling at the wonders of the universe, never minding that we had gone through several eggs to find just “the right one”—particularly one with a tiny tripod of calcium deposits on its base.

I posted our miracle on Facebook and someone replied with a video showing how equinox egg balancing is, in fact, a hoax. The power of suggestion (and lack of patience) disables spring devotees from balancing eggs any other day of the year.

I felt the chagrin associated with being taken by a scam. My friend felt far worse, refusing to believe it at first. She’d balanced eggs on the first day of spring and fall every year since she was a kid. It was a beloved family tradition, a magical memory, and—so she thought—a wonderful science lesson to pass on to friends.

When I emailed this photo to my friend, two days after “the window of opportunity” to balance an egg—she confessed to being a “doubting Thomas.” She said the whole experience caused her to examine her mindset in other areas of her life.

I am reminded of the day I too examined a particular mindset. I awoke one morning and asked myself, Why do I believe in the God of the Bible? What if it’s a hoax—a beloved tradition that I am unwilling to let go of, one that blinds me to objective truth?

I realized that it could not be about what I want to believe. It has to be about wanting to know the truth.

Some days I don’t want to believe that morality matters (because relationships matter). That there is Someone Who watches over every jealous, envious, resentful, deceiving, bitter, complaining, arrogant and self-righteous thought and intent of my heart. 

Or that there could be a place called “Hell”—the voluntary, eternal separation from a loving, thus free-will giving God.

So I had to dig for answers outside of my Western, American Christian traditions and conditioned responses. I had to patiently, diligently, “steady the egg” through studies in Biblical archeology, the authenticity of ancient manuscripts and so on.

To my astonishment, truth stood upright before my wide-open eyes, on the level bedrock of reason. 

Do you know why you believe what you believe?

Summer and winter, springtime and harvest. Sun, moon and stars in their courses above. Join with all nature in manifold witness, to thy great faithfulness, mercy and love. --Thomas O. Chisholm

Why I Don't Listen to Worship Music or Read Spiritual Books

I’m about to admit something publicly for the first time. I figured I’d have to sooner or later. One can’t be heavily involved in the Church and keep this a secret for too long:

I rarely listen to music—even worship music. I don’t care much for spiritual books (devotionals and books to help one grow in the faith). 

Here’s why. For years I have observed a phenomenon in the church at large. Lay people and ministers alike clutter their minds with noise—Christian radio and cd’s—from the time their feet hit the floor in the morning until the time they tuck their toes in bed. Some even continue the noise after that—with soothing sounds to lull them to sleep. The next morning they start the day with waterproof shower music and turn on the car CD player the second they turn the key. There is always music playing. Good music. For some, 100% God-music. 

But it’s noise. 

Then they find themselves at a crisis or crossroad and need an answer from God, and they can’t figure out why He isn’t speaking. 

Perhaps He can’t compete with the noise in our heads. Perhaps we rarely get quiet enough to hear His voice. It is still and small, as He told us.

We don’t hear that still, small voice through the noise of the lyrics still buzzing in our ears long after the music has been shut off, so what do we do? We read. We pick up the latest hot item from the hottest conference speaker and hope that maybe we can hear God’s voice in the pages written by one of His spokesmen.

But too often it’s just more noise—another voice singing a different tune. And it clutters our minds and clouds our thinking and clogs up our spiritual ears.

The last time someone handed me a spiritual book and said, “This will change your life,” I took him up on it. I sat down and began reading, and my spiritual insides growled with hunger for the real book. This one was a packaged, processed, instant substitute for God’s potent Word. It was watered down, “Truth lite.” It required no meditation or digging for meaning. It was the stuff of man-made revelation fluff. I felt homesick for the real thing. 

Worship music has its place in my life. I love high-powered God-songs in corporate worship on a Sunday morning. Or while I’m scrubbing the bathtub or when I need a little something to help me get through those unavoidable hours of kill-me-now dinner preparation and vegetable chopping. Or when I'm overwhelmed with sorrow or gratitude and the only appropriate response is to sit at the piano or turn on a CD and dance.

Niche devotionals can be helpful in defined seasons of life (I just helped to write one.). There are spiritual books that have changed my life and I continue to recommend to them to others.

But nothing can compare to the miracle that happens when one fills up the quiet with the sound of munching on the pure, rich Word of God. 

And then waits. 

If we keep it quiet, He’ll be sure to speak.