@ Satan--This Post Will Tick You Off!

There’s a Facebook status I’ve dreamed of typing for quite some time now.  It goes something like this:

After five years, three months, 19 days and seven hours of unemployment (with grad school thrown in), Dave is finally, officially EMPLOYED!

Of course my FB friends will ask where, doing what, and I’ll reply with something like:
     
Research Associate, Harvard… We’re moving to Boston!!!! :)
                                               or
Environmental Scientist, Honolulu (Hey, I can dream!)

If you  had told me that come May, 2010, Dave would still be sitting here filling out job applications, I’d have slapped you with a frozen deer steak. But here we are. The journey is long and stained with tears of frustration and self pity.

I remember the night several weeks ago that I lay in bed next to Dave, on my stomach, hugging my pillow. I looked at him and declared, “It’s time to pray a new prayer. There are people watching us, watching our lives. They are watching our faith in a God Who promises to provide. Didn’t the Israelites use that as leverage in their petitions to Jehovah? ‘What will the heathens think of You if you forsake us’?” We prayed together with new boldness, motivated by the desire to bring glory to God.

Nothing happened.

Oh God did provide—many times and in surprising and mysterious ways. He has continued to supply our every need, as He promised (Philippians 4:19). We have yet to go hungry, unclothed, and unhoused. When we need a job is up to Him to decide. There are lessons to be learned in the meantime. One day, one of them occurred to me (and became a real Facebook status):

God wills to be glorified as much in poverty as in prosperity, in suffering as in bliss.


And so I rest my case. There is a joy to be found that defies circumstance, a peace that mocks uncertainty. I have found my living hope, my anchor of the soul. His name is Jesus. When the Heavens are finally opened and the blessings poured out, let it not be said that my countenance changed.
  

Never Hula Hoop with Barbie

Yesterday our church ladies put on a Hawaiian themed pool party at the YMCA. Women were expected to swim for a while, then enjoy each other’s company looking like drowned rats. The idea was to create an atmosphere that would make unchurched women feel "comfortable" among us religious folks.

Huh?

I secretly thought it was the most hairbrained idea I’d ever heard of. I mean, what woman over a size (fill in the blank) wants to socialize in a bathing suit? And that among strangers? I ached for us women expected to strip ourselves down to such vulnerability. Then I stopped aching, thinking no one would show up.

I had to show up, as I was asked to provide the entertainment for the after-pool party. I brought my girls, figuring at least they would have a good time. (Little girls are typically more comfortable in exposed skin than we grown-ups are.) I dumped my happy kids in the water and sat on the bench, still in my church clothes (I turn purple and shake uncontrollably in water less than 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Leave me alone about it; I might die and you’d be sorry.).

I sat there, warm and dry, watching thirty women (a third of which were visitors) splash around, enjoying their bathing bash. They played ball and giggled with my girls (insert tinge of guilt here), and walked around the pool as uninhibited as naked toddlers. No one seemed to mind exposing blinding-white skin, spider veins, and thighs that look like the surface of a lake on a windy day. No one that is, except me.

But there was something so beautiful, so precious, about every wrinkle, dimple and sag exposed in that room. Those imperfections comprised one big gift exchange among my sisters. They were the language of unleashed love: "I love you enough to trust you to love me in return, just the way I am." Part of me—the part that doesn’t mind being cold—wanted to strip my rippled self and jump in with them.

After the pool party the drowned rats entered the community room for fun and games. Uh-oh. Could I compete with the fun they’d had in the Arctic? Well, I certainly tried. I taught them how to Hula dance, seeing as I just returned from a trip to You-Tube. (My daughters later told me I looked like a crippled chicken, trying to swing my booty like that.) Then I taught Darcie-the-Barbie how to hula-hoop. “Just watch me,” I told her. I hurled my hula-hoop directly to the floor three times. She got hers going instantly, and stood there modeling her spinning waist ring, saying she’d never tried it before. I think she was lying (wink wink).

Enjoy the following video: Wrinkled Ladies

Chainsaw Lady

 
      She’s a high school French teacher by day and a chain saw lady by night. I saw the evidence behind her garage door.
     “The first time I ever used one,” Brenda told me as she caressed the machine’s destructive blade, “was at eleven o’clock pm. I just had to try it. So we drove in the dark to the woods, took a fallen tree home, and I carved a bear.”
     That was a couple of years ago. This southern New York state mom has carved more than bears since then. In her garage is a museum of wooden raccoons, owls, dogs and other creatures that look so real I checked to make sure she kept her trash sealed tightly.
     Brenda has made a profitable business out of her wood-carving hobby. She showed me her pre-orders—pictures of pets customers had submitted to be made into lawn ornaments of discarded pieces of hemlock, silver maple, white pine, cherry.
     Two things fascinated me about Brenda’s work. One was that every facial line, whisker, and feather was created with a giant power tool. There was no fine tuning with a smaller, more delicate instrument; yet her designs are so intricate. I never imagined that a roaring, smoking chain saw could put a sharp point on the tip of a bear’s claws or comb the fine fur of a Newfoundland’s ears.
     The second thing I remember most was what Brenda said about getting her inspiration. “I don’t see a tree trunk sitting there on the ground. I see a bear inside it, begging to get out.” And so she goes to work setting the creature free.
     I’ve been undergoing my own such “liberation” at the hands of The Master Craftsman. It seems that God has looked beyond the chipped and broken edges of my fallen nature and recognized the person He intended. It’s an ongoing and painful process, this shaping me from who-I’ve-been to who-I’ll -be.
     I’m hacked at, sometimes in large and sudden chunks that leave me wondering what will be left. I keep telling myself that God has a picture in mind. He knows what He’s after.
     It was through a tree—cut and raised to bear God’s image—that Another was perfected long ago. His finished work seals my hope of completion.
     The tree—the Cross—is only the beginning.


“For it was fitting for Him, for whom are all things, and through whom are all things, in bringing many sons to glory, to perfect the author of their salvation through sufferings.” Hebrews 2:10

More pictures of Brenda's carvings can be seen at: http://www.facebook.com/#!/album.php?aid=2009331&id=1655815995

Memo to a Homophobe

This post has been simmering in my thoughts for a while and a couple of recent conversations have finally made it boil over and steam up my blog. Take caution.

In the past seventy-two hours I have heard two Christians on separate occasions call gays “queer” and suggest that they may be pedophilic. (Excuse me while I throw up.) This is the kind of thing that makes me embarrassed to align myself with chrischuns and makes us more persecuted than necessary. Jesus said, “Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness sake.” Last I checked, name-calling, insulting, shunning, snubbing, profiling and stereotyping are not righteous.

I know some gay people and they are very kind. Matter of fact, I could totally be friends with the likes of Ellen DeGeneres (don’t you dare play games with her last name) and Rosie O’Donnell. Admittedly, I’m not a TV watcher and don’t know all the details of their lives, but from what little I’ve seen, those women seem fun and funny. I’d rather spend time with them any day than with a bunch of dried-up religious prudes or hypocrites who separate themselves from gays and their TV shows, yet spend hours watching trashy heterosexual back-seat behavior, violence and swearing to boot. Pharisees aren’t “fair, you see.” (Did you know the New Testament Greek word for Pharisee is “separate?” Selah.)

Besides, Jesus likes Ellen and Rosie. If that bothers you, you don't like Jesus. You just think you do. Re-read the New Testament. It was the religious He condemned daily in the temple; after that He enjoyed the company of His sinner friends in their heathen homes--not excusing their sin, but setting them free from destructive lifestyles of every kind, loving them to the Truth. (If you've never cracked open the New Testament, I challenge you to read about this God-Man called Jesus and see if you don't fall in love with Him.)

If you are still reading this, you may wonder what my stance, as a professing fundamaniacal Jesus freak, is on homosexuality. I don’t believe it was God’s intent, and I believe the Bible clearly condemns it (for good and loving reasons, but that's another post). But that has nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but NOTHING to do with how I view or treat gays. If the sin factor plays such an important role in choosing your friendships, you should have nothing to do with me.

For Jobless People Only

If you are unemployed, or married to someone unemployed, as a result of this unrelenting recession—I am here to tell you what you already know but need to hear and feel, up close and personal. You are not alone. There are many, many people—blue collar and white collar, in your same situation. I know your daily struggle to keep your face above the floods of despair that threaten to take you under.

(By-the-way, if someone says the recession is over, bless his pea-pickin’ little heart. He must not be looking for a job.)

Here’s another thing I know. I know how hard you’re working (or your spouse is working) to find work. I know the hours—hours it takes to scroll through job postings and fill out applications, hundreds of them, hoping to hear back from just one.

I know the disappointment of seeing the same old same old positions listed over and over again.

I know that one can memorize several pages of indeed.com. and the same eight jobs that have been posted at major companies’ websites for months.

I know that not all job fairs are equal. I know that there are unknowing people who can actually laugh at you from their little job fair booth when you ask if they need a chemist.

I know what it is to not care anymore that you may have to move to a frozen –over place like Montana.

Or take a job doing the very thing you went to back to school to try to get away from.

I understand your right to refuse that job, knowing how wrong it would be to take it until something better comes along two months later. I will never judge you for that. It is right. 

I also understand that it is more difficult to get a job if you are over-qualified than under-qualified. I know how well-meaning friends and family members sit around and talk about how you should be willing to take just any job, not realizing that you would take any job--if only you could get hired. I know how you want to wring the necks of those who don't understand that a warehouse manager will not hire a scientist to package parts.


I know what it’s like to find out that because of Equal Opportunity laws many (if not most) of the positions listed online were already filled internally before they were posted.

I know the hopes and joys of getting an interview and going out to celebrate because it went so well…and I know the blow you feel when you read that follow up email.

I know that having connections and “it’s who you know” doesn’t always matter.

I know the pain of being judged over the fact that you still don’t have a job.

I don’t write these things to be complaining. I’m not trying to garner pity (I get enough from myself! ;) . I am simply reminding you, once again, that you are not alone. I know those details that can’t be written about, those things you don’t dare mention to anyone.

I know how you want someone to care and that’s all. You haven’t got your hand out. I care.

In my head, I know God is at work to find us work. It just takes a while of actively seeking Him in prayer and in His Word to get what I know in my head down into my heart, to the point that my life reflects faith. I’m not always there. I want you to know that too. I know what it’s like to not always be there.

Soon Dave will have a job, the Lord willing, and this will be over. Until then, “when we are faithless, he remains faithful.” 2 Ti. 2:13

Mrs. Bigot

I have a perfectly wonderful husband who keeps me very happy. But you know, I've been thinking. Perhaps I'm foolish in limiting myself to just one man. Maybe it's time I explore my options; there are plenty of other good men out there. Aren't I being awfully narrow-minded to say that Dave is the one and only one for me?

Not.

I use such absurdity to answer those who would suggest that I'm "narrow-minded" in my belief that Jesus is the only way to God. Call me a religious bigot, but there are reasons I'm a One-God woman:

First of all, Jesus said Himself that He's the only way to God. Not the best way or the preferred way--but the only way.

Then He backed up His claim by willingly dying to save me from eternal death. No other "path to God" is paved with such love.

He resurrected to save me to eternal life. I figure that if He has that much power over His own life, I owe Him the chance with mine.

Jesus satisfies me. Completely. I tried other "men"--I studied world religions (including the non religion called humanism). I came up empty in my quest for meaning, purpose, peace, and fulfillment. It was only in a person--a relationship with my Creator--that I found the essence of life.

Only the one true and living God offers me the guidance and protection of a father, the comfort and nurturing of a mother, the friendship and faithfulness of a brother, and the intimacy and devotion of a lover. I need look no further.

"Almighty God, you have made us for yourself. And our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you." --St. Augustine

"I am the bread of life. He who comes to me shall never hunger, and he who believes in me shall never thirst." John 6:34

Humility and How I Obtained It*

     I once attended a leadership training seminar in which a teacher opened her session with the question, "How humble are you?" I couldn't resist shouting out, "Very!"
     That's the treacherous nature of humility. It is the strange virtue that disallows one to be conscious  of  it. My husband possesses such a virtue. But just to make sure, I once looked at him and pointedly asked: "David Bogdan, are you humble?" I smirked, curiously awaiting his reply. Both "yes" and "no" would have been "wrong" answers. Without too much delay, he said, "It's all relative."
     But there's more to humility than merely not being puffed up. Jesus talked of being "poor in spirit" (Matthew 5:1), i.e. teachable, "needy" in the healthy sense of knowing you have a lot to learn. I thought about this recently while listening in on a discussion about what it looks like to be humble. A man said he cannot receive from teachers or preachers that are a little too pious or self-confident. As he repeated for the third time that he chooses what internet preacher to listen to based on his or her humility quota, the irony of his words struck me: How humble is he? Isn't humility having the ability to hear from anyone, leaving it up to God to handle that person's pride?
    Furthermore, the apostle Peter admonished Christian slaves to honor and respect masters that were harsh and unreasonable (proud), as well as those who were kind and gentle (I Peter 2:18). If God expected that much from first century slaves, should He not expect a humble attitude from me toward a minister who's lacking in humility?
    Some say that you can't be humble and at the same time know that you are. Let me take it one step further: Those that are truly humble are aware that they have an incurable, deep-rooted pride of the most sinister sort.
    So...how humble are you?    

*Humility and How I Obtained It is a fictitious book title, a joke told by the beloved (and very humble) Bible teacher Bob Mumford.

  
     
   

Love is Not for Fraidy Cats

John thinks the opposite of love is fear. At least that's what he told me in his first letter. I had always believed--no doubt along with most people--that love's opposite is hate. I'm sure that's also true, but consider what the apostle wrote in his epistle (are you tongue-tied yet?):

"There is no fear in love" (I John 4:18). John went on to say that "he who fears has not been perfected in love." That got me to thinking.

Fears what? What do I fear more than anything else? What do you fear the most? Maybe for you it's death, or the loss of a loved one, but if we were to be honest, I wonder how many would agree that we mostly fear something so silly it's embarrassing to admit: We fear the same people who fear us. We worry about what others think while they worry about what we think. We are afraid of fraidy cats--people who blush and  sweat and tremble and get blotchy red necks and butterflies in the pit of their stomach just like we do. No matter how long a string of letters trail behind their name.

What if there were such a thing as "fearless love?" What if we could find ourselves at a place of perfection, completion, in this kind of love? How would it change our lives if we loved without a trace of fear? I've been thinking about this for a while, and I've concluded that with "fearless love" for people I would...

never be intimidated

express myself without inhibition

walk in transparency

not fear being judged

freely admit to my stupid mistakes and laugh at myself

risk reaching out to those who might wound me again

request that interview

ask for that endorsement

apply for that position

start that business

preach that sermon

befriend that neighbor

forgive my husband

engage the cashier

schedule dinner guests (This is huge for me; I have an irrational mental block about hospitality and cooking. Which is indeed silly; I make a mean lasagna. Besides that, I know that people don't come primarily for the food; they come for friendship.)

dance like nobody's looking

avoid the use of clichés

What would you add to this list? What would it look like if you could love without a trace of fear?

Too bad it can't happen. Too bad we have to settle for very human-like human love--love that loves with reservation. Love that loves while carefully protecting "self." Love that is afraid to let go. Love that's chained by fear--fear of rolling eyes, fear of being spent, or "dissed," or under appreciated....

If only there were someone that had this "fearless love" and could somehow work it into our DNA so that we grew in it, became perfected in it. If only we could inherit this kind of love, as a father passes certain genes onto his children. What if there were some type of, say, heavenly Dad who recognized our fearful, less-than-perfectly-loving condition and offered to do something about it.  And we took Him up on it. Of course it would involve quite the transformation. A spiritual heart transplant of some sort. A mystical transfusion of blood. A receiving of that heavenly love in ourselves first. But oh, what we could do with this new and fearless love!

"And we have known and believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him." I John 4:18

I Corinthians 13 for Evangelicals, Charismatics and Otherwise Very Nice People

Though I speak in tongues and prophesy with shocking accuracy… though I fiercely defend truth and valiantly guard good doctrine… though I silence the skeptic with skillful debate and bedazzle Christian minds with Biblical insights about love—but have not love—I am a bothersome ringing in God’s ears.

Though I weep for the nations and intercede for cities… though I have faith that scatters demons, lengthens  limbs or brings multitudes to their knees… though my days be marked by fasting, my nights with fervent prayer and my years by serving on plague-ravaged soil—but have not love—to God I am nobody impressive.

Though I give lavishly to survivors of earthquakes,  passionately pursue justice for the enslaved, care for our precious earth, fight tirelessly for the rights of the unborn… or the hated; I have helped others, as I should, and that is good. But if I have not love—it does not get me an ounce of credit with God.

Love suffers long and silently under unfair assumptions and cruel accusations—never feeling the need to defend or explain.

Love freely expresses genuine happiness over another’s success.

Love does not casually slip her good deeds into conversation.

Love prefers to others-promote.

Love cannot remember yesterday’s insensitive remarks. It has forgotten last year’s rude comment.

Love is not paranoid or suspicious; there is no fear in love.

Love is not quick to correct.

Love can take correction.

Love’s first response to injury is compassion—not exposure.

Love is crushed at the news of an enemy’s failure.

Love puts up with immature babble. 

Love patiently bears with incessant whining, yet is not manipulated by it.

Love is gracious under unprofessionalism, never feeling the need to “help” by pointing out where improvement is needed.  Yet it knows when to confront with fearless grace.

Love is not short with the telemarketer or stingy with the slow waiter.

Love does not get even with the in-law; it dares to get flowers instead.

Love spends itself caring for the aged mother, never mindful of lost opportunities.

Love holds close the distant teenager. It keeps holding tight around rigid arms.

Love never fails.  Philosophies, programs, causes, books, lifestyles, facelifts, ministries, sermons, bailouts, heroes, romances, cash, adventures, diet plans, dating profiles, miracle drugs, business ventures, spouses, children, parents and friends may disappoint, fail and vanish away.

The sum total of all of our wisdom and knowledge combined is but a speck of dust compared to what we don’t yet know, but need to know. It will be done away with, when that which is all we ever needed comes to us.

It is time to put away childish thinking, living, behaving—childish loving.

One day we will see clearly the essence of love. We will see Him face to face, and we will know ourselves  and each other as He has always  known us.

People talk of the greatness of faith and hope. But one day there will be no more need for those. Only love will remain. For it is the greatest.


(See the original I Corinthians 13 for the truly inspired version.)

She Makes Men out of Kool-Aid

     Today I went to the mailbox and found an envelope with a small red Kool-Aid stain wrapped around the edge. Rather than discarding the soiled piece of mail, the sender had taken an ink pen and outlined the front part of the stain, transforming it into a perfect, red-faced lumberjack. On the back of the envelope was a cute red bear with a heart tattoo on its arm.
     "Just like Georgia," I smiled.
     Georgia does that with life too. When unexpected turmoil gets splashed into her existence, she dons her spiritual beret and quickly beautifies what most of us would prefer to toss into the "no thank you" bin.
     Here's what I mean. Seven years ago her (then) fiance was diagnosed with cancer.  She had a hospital wedding ceremony anyway, while he was undergoing treatment. The local newspaper showcased a radiant bride next to a hairless groom in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV.
     Three years ago Georgia's obstetrician informed her that since her five months-pregnant womb had completely emptied itself of amniotic fluid, the baby boy inside would most likely be born dead, or at best suffer severe brain damage. Georgia refused to give in to fear, notifying the doctors that God willing, her baby would be fine. Two weeks ago, little Garrett was romping around my kitchen wearing Dave's hunting boots, healthy as can be.
     Georgia struggles to make ends meet, on a regular basis. Yet I'll never forget the day she called to offer me half of her tax return because Dave was out of work. I refused the offer, but knew it would have thrilled her to put the money in the mail even though she was much more in need, with four little mouths to feed and no husband at home.
     I was shocked to learn one day, after knowing Georgia for several years, that she suffers from an auto-immune disorder. She had never once complained of her symptoms.
     And there's her past. It's the real reason she should be wearing a frown, rather than penning smiles on envelopes and constantly wearing one too. You see, Georgia's birth mother tried to scald her to death as an infant in a steaming bathtub. She was rescued by social services, only to be placed in one fostering hell home after another.
     Georgia knows what it's like to have the blinds shut and door locked every afternoon when  you're twelve years old.... She still remembers the way they laughed at school when she arrived wearing the contents of "the bucket" she'd been forced to empty at three in the morning on an icy driveway.... The memories are as fresh as the road kill served for suppers--skunk, raccoon, squirrel and woodchuck. "If it's still warm it's safe" he'd always say.
     And there were the cruel and unusual punishments--hours standing against the wall trying desperately to not let the quarter slip off...but she was so tired. And that's when the coffee was brewed. And forced down, black, at four in the morning.
     How Georgia hates the smell of coffee!
     Sometimes I forget when she comes to visit. "But this is hazelnut!" I always say. We laugh.
     Georgia should be throwing Kool-Aid stained envelopes away.
     One day she did start over though. It was in a country church with simple folk. The preacher told them Jesus could make their scarlet-stained heart as white as snow. Georgia ran forward and a lifetime of misery rushed out in tears. "If you don't love me, I can't love me. And no one else will," she told God.
     I have only scratched the surface of the untold hardships of Georgia's life. The rest are too dark and painful to mention here. Yet since that day at the altar, twenty years ago, Georgia's worn a smile as big as her heart. It's funny. She's the one that cheers me up. Me with a husband at home. Me with the happy childhood memories. Healthy me. (Slightly more) wealthy me. I can only conclude that I need a little more of the Jesus Georgia has.
     And a beret.

(This story written with permission.)

Why I Don't Make New Year's Resolutions

I don't make New Year's Resolutions; I make daily ones. I got the idea from an old prophet.

In the Old Testament book of Lamentations (chapter three), Jeremiah is having one big pity party. He feels the pain of Israel's broken resolutions and is about to give up on everything and everybody, including himself and God (who Jeremiah is sure must be against him as well). Until...


     "But this I call to mind,
      and therefore I have hope:

      The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases
      his mercies never come to an end;
      they are new every morning."

Suddenly poor old Jeremy remembers God's mercies (Hebrew, hesed), or covenant/steadfast love. At the end of the day--at the end of his rope, his hope--that is what remains. New mercy will be waiting in the morning, after his long, dark night of affliction.

From Jeremiah I learn that God's mercies are new every morning--not every year. That means if I fail at keeping my latest resolution, I get a fresh start within twenty-four hours.

Actually, I don't have to wait until the cock crows. I believe Jeremiah is simply telling us that God is abundantly merciful, always merciful, instantly merciful. When the apostle Paul told the Philippians to forget the past and reach for what lies ahead (chapter three), he meant the past--whether it's ten minutes, or ten years in the past. God's mercies--his hesed--means that my future is one fresh start after another, starting now. No failure of mine can interrupt "the steadfast love of the Lord."

So here goes. My New Day Resolutions:


Today I resolve to limit myself to one Lindt Truffle and no more.

I resolve to eat an unfulfilling-but-healthy apple.

I resolve to get outside and walk, unless it's in the single digits. Then I resolve to move to Florida.

I resolve to figure out what's for dinner by noon. I resolve to have it on the table by five (-ish). I resolve to smile sweetly and bite my tongue until it bleeds if they don't like what I make. I resolve to hire a cook.

I resolve to not raise my voice at the children.

I resolve to be a respectful, non-nagging wife.

I resolve to write a blog post (check).

I resolve to get myself in bed by ten o'clock so as to awaken tomorrow well before the kids do and enjoy an early morning tea with God.

I resolve to run into God's ready arms if I fail.

I resolve to listen when He tells me I am loved anyway, and that tomorrow will be a fresh start.

Recipe for a Miracle

1 fully ripe circumstance

2 cups impossibility (no substitutes)

Drain natural resources

Add one grain of faith

Fold in prayer

Let praise rise until doubled

Punch down doubtful thoughts

Need

Let praise rise again

Punch down words of defeat

Leave in furnace of affliction until edges are golden

Chill and wait

Charismaniac Attack

My ideal church would meet in a gym, allow bagels and jeans during the sermon, and make skeptics feel right at home. It would not allow the kind of person who attacked Gail Tipton* one Sunday in the early 1980's.

Gail is a fiery Baltimorean preacher with a college education and a distaste for nonprofessionalism. So when her pastor invited a cornfed woman from Kentucky as the guest speaker for morning worship, Gail folded her arms. This hick had runs in her stockings, coffee stains on her blouse, and very unbrushed teeth. But that wasn't all. At the end of a butchered sermon, the dear woman pointed to Gail and called her forward for prayer!

Gail wanted to run and hide, but instead lurched toward the front of the church and her worst fear was realized--she was about to be attacked by a charismaniac. Holy Roller Hillbilly yelled, spitting out every "s" in Jesus' mighty name, pushed and shoved unkempt fingers on Janet's head, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, in her belly, in her belly, and in her belly! She shundalah-ed, roared, bound and finally loosed poor Gail to her seat. Janet went home and took a bath, half ready to throw in the Pentecostal towel and become a Methodist.

I relate to Gail. The left side of my brain frequently complains to God about the wackos in His family--the dreaming, angel-chasing, sign-seeking, shaking, quaking folks that clutter my would-be tidy Sunday service and logic-loving mind.

Three months after the quack attack Gail was rushed to the emergency room with unexplained internal bleeding. Her abdomen was swollen and she was close to death. Lying on the hospital bed in desperation, Gail silently cried out to God for help. Wanting to not make a spectacle before her roommate (polished as she was, you know), the frail woman grabbed two IV poles connected to bags of blood, and inched her way into the bathroom. She shut the door, leaned over the sink, and bargained with God:

"Do you remember that dear, sweet (very dear, very sweet) woman from Kentucky that laid hands on my stomach a few months ago, and prayed for healing before I knew I needed it? Well if you answer her prayer, I promise I'll never make fun of one of your servants again."

The next day Gail went home, healthy, leaving the doctors befuddled as to what had caused her hemorraging. She's been healthy ever since.

Gail spoke in our church--our little charismatic church--last Sunday. The night before I had talked late into the night with my dad about my disillusionment with the "containters" in which God stores His presence--people like the little lady from Kentucky. I had no idea that the next morning's topic would be Treasures and Containers. As Gail spoke so passionately and eloquently about the need to value the container (God's people) for the treasure (God) that they hold, I wept.

How many times had I reacted like leperous Naaman when Elijah told him to dip in the muddy Jordan seven times (II Kings 5)? It took the same humility for Captain Naaman to receive his healing that it will for me to receive what God might say and do through the sometimes muddled waters of "spirit-filled" church. Containers aren't perfect, but the treasure within, is.

(Note: I happen to attend a charismatic church, but consider myself interdenominational, or  nondenominational. I feel at home in any church where the Bible is preached and Jesus is our common ground.)

*name has been changed

God Bought Me Some Perfume

So I've been wanting some new perfume. But as the luxury remains on my "when-Dave-gets-a-job" list, I'm content to sniff-n-wish every time I go to the mall, taking home samples of my latest "favorite."

There's this verse in the Psalms about God giving us the desires of our heart. I've always piously declared that as long as our desires match His, He will do just that. But perfume? Way too carnal a thing to desire.

Not so, apparently, for at church today a lady (knowing nothing of my secret parfum pining) handed me a bag containing a gift box of five small bottles of unopened designer perfume. "I wanted to give you a present," she said, and walked away.

My guess? God told her. I really should stop being suprised and let it sink in that He really does like us that much--enough to buy me perfume.

"If you'll hold on to me for dear life," says God, "I'll get you out of any trouble. I'll give you the best of care if you'll only get to know and trust me. Call to me and I'll answer, be at your side in bad times; I'll rescue you, then throw you a party. I'll give you a long life, give you a long drink of salvation." Ps. 91:14-16, The Message

Snitchin' from the Kitchen

Last Sunday one of our daughters was found stealing marshmallows from the church refrigerator (Well wouldn't you be tempted? The seat can only sit beneath a tummy's rumbling and a preacher's rambling for so long). In our dwelling, the punishment must fit the crime, and so it was decided that the aforementioned would go without sweets for the rest of the day.

This was acceptable until our dear friend Xiu Yun, petite owner of "The Famiry Wok," gave our children a package of orange-almond cookies. When Dear Daughter realized what her snitchin' from the kitchen cost her, she ran up to her room and fell into a torrent of tears strong enough to soak through the knotty pine-lined ceiling. Ruthie, listening to the despairing cry, sat and studied her cookie. Suddenly she jumped up and with wide-eyed revelation pled, "Can I give her half of my cookie?"

I smiled. My damsel in distress had been rescued. A few minutes later a red-eyed little girl and her sacrificing sister were chomping on cookie halves, their legs swinging wildly beneath the table.

Isn't that what Christ, our Brother, has done for us? Seeing we had stupidly cheated ourselves out of forever enjoying the good pleasure of the Father's Kingdom, Jesus willingly offered us a share in His inheritance. He couldn't bear to see us go without all the joys intended for our lives here on earth; He couldn't keep the gift of eternal life--power over the grave--all to Himself. He could only be happy sharing it with us. That desire cost Him dearly.

And I wonder, when Father God looked upon that sacrifice, if He felt what I did when I looked into Ruthie's hazel eyes that day---the joy that comes when "mercy triumphs over judgment" (James 2:13).

Bible Characters on Facebook

(Just for fun, for my fellow Facebook addicts out there)



Abraham just gave Lot a L'il Green Patch.

Noah needs more farm animals.

Suggest friends for Job.

Isaac is now married.

Solomon--Interested In: women

Adam has just added you as his relative.

Elijah just took the "What Movie are You?" Quiz and the result is: Gone with the Wind.

Hide Baby Moses.

Ignore Delilah.

Absalom just took the "How will you die?" Quiz and the result is: Hanged by hair from a tree.

Ruth just harvested barley in Farm Town.

The Apostle Paul just sent you a Holy Kiss. Kiss him back!

Jonah just took the "What Movie are You?" Quiz and the result is: The Perfect Storm.

Saul just threw a spear at David.

Abraham just took the "What Bible Character are You?" Quiz and the result is: Abraham.

God wrote on Belshazzar's Wall.

Idiot's Guide to Heaven and Hell

As Anna and I snuggled in for a recent “Bible time” together, we read the passage in Matthew 22 in which Jesus told the Sadducees that there would be no marriage in Heaven.

“No marriage in Heaven?” my almost-thirteen-year-old gasped, then sat beside me gaping in disbelief. I could read her mind. Already looking forward to the dating years, I’ll bet she was praying right then and there that Jesus wouldn’t come back for a very long time.

Sensing her disappointment, I explained that most of us are mistaken about Heaven. We picture ourselves strumming harps as we float along on fluffy clouds in and out of private mansions. That would get dull after a few thousand years. If Heaven is merely a pain-free, glorified extension of this present existence, I’m disappointed already.

But this is what I told Anna: Heaven is a literal place, to be sure. There are untold pleasures to be enjoyed with all the five senses and more. But beyond that, Heaven is as much about “being” as it is “doing.” Since “the essence of life is relationship” (Victor Dodzweit), Heaven—or eternal life—is the ultimate experience in and expression of relationship. Complete transparency characterizes the community of Heaven. We will experience each other with an intimacy that far surpasses the physical intimacy lovers share on earth. Someone explained that in Heaven, when you meet a person for the first time, you see them from the inside out, as opposed to the earthly “working your way in”. You immediately see (sense, feel, know, realize) one’s true self (character, personality) the instant you meet him or her.

And better still, you love and appreciate what you see! It’s as if the person who once rubbed you the wrong way has been completely emptied of every trace of annoyance, and the positive aspects of that personality have been condensed and magnified to make up the entire individual, so that we will understand each other as the unique person he or she was always meant to be. And we’ll have an eternity to “discover” people for the first time, and to enjoy them forever. It makes me giddy just thinking about it (I've already got coffee dates booked with CS Lewis and the apostle Paul).

But that’s just the people part. We will fully experience God—the pure essence of love. People that have momentarily died, gone to Heaven and come back, all tell of an incredible feeling of being enveloped in a love that warmed them beyond what human language can express.

Hell is the exact opposite. I define it as the absence of the presence of God. Here on earth, the worst infidels are still able to call on God, for He is here. Not so in Hell. It is a place of utter abandonment—a loneliness unlike any ever experienced on earth. Some people joke and say “at least I’ll be in good company in Hell—we’ll party!” That won’t be the case. Hell is a place where God respects one wishes and allows them the fullest experience of what they always wanted on earth. So those that lived for themselves will get just that—they will have their “selves” all to themselves. Randy Alcorn writes of an individual who found himself in Hell and soon heard a blood-curdling scream, thought to be a demon. He realized it was his own scream; the thing he loved too much to ever deny now turned on him to torment him for eternity. As will all those things some choose to hold on to—hate, fear, greed, envy, and so on. They are the only company one has in Hell. They become all-consuming giants now feeding on the ones who used to feed on them.

Hell was intended for Satan and his angels. God never meant for any human to go there, and He went the distance in providing us with a way out. Ask Jesus about that.

Reviews of My Favorite Books

Much as I’d rather be blogging, I have GOT to finish my book. So in the words of an animated tiger, “TTFN!” (TA TA for Now!). But before I take my blogging hiatus, I thought I’d leave my own reviews of a few of my favorite books:

Dinner With a Perfect Stranger, by David Gregory—What if you could go to dinner with Jesus and ask him anything? This engaging novella does just that. Over fine Italian dining, Jesus gives the main character answers to questions we’ve all had. I’d recommend this book to (1.) Anyone who wants to know what sets Christianity apart from all other religions and (2.) Christians wanting to fall in love with Jesus all over again.


Inside the Mind of Unchurched Harry and Marry, by Lee Strobel. The title says it all. I wish pastors would quit strategizing about how to grow and just read this book.

UnChristian, by David Kinneman—Christians, prepare to cringe. The author lets us know that it is us, not Jesus, people have a problem with, and details why.

Mere Christianity, by C.S. Lewis—A down-to-earth explanation as to why it makes perfect sense that there’s a God and what are His intentions.

Redeeming Love, by Francine Rivers—Think God doesn’t like you? Guess again! Warning to Moms: Cook ahead and freeze meals before starting this book—you’ll be glued to the couch until finishing this riveting deluge of passion. But it’s worth the life-changing read. By the end you’ll be stripping your soul stark naked and going on a honey-moon with God.

My Skin Disease

I've been reading up on Epidermolysis Bullosa--a life-threatening skin disease in which the epidermis does not attach to the dermis, due to lack of the protein collagen. Consequently the skin blisters with the slightest bump or scratch. The blisters are painful and cause scarring, which leads to deformities in the extremities. A child with EB knows only a life consumed with daily wrappings, ointments and dressings, constant pain and emotional suffering. It was all I could do to get through each heart-wrenching paragraph and picture describing this gruesome condition.

And then I realized I have the same disease.

My physical epidermis is attached just fine, but I have a skin hyper-sensitivity of another sort. Call it the "disease to please," the fear of man or public opinion, or plain old being too sensitive--the fact of the matter is, I blister inwardly at the slightest bump to my ego. I'm constantly dressing new wounds and nursing old ones it seems--as a result of what someone said to me or thought about me. I tiptoe my way around people at times, careful to not get my too-thin skin scratched. It's a nasty ailment, this approval-addiction affliction.

The good news is, unlike EB, there is a cure for my particular skin disease (for more on the cure, read the post, "Have You Seen My Self?"). I am in recovery. My skin is slowly but surely thickening. I'm finding that I'm more and more able to survive the bumps that result when I say something bold--or stupid for that matter. Stares, whispers and bad opinions--real or imagined--are becoming but the brush of a feather against my increasingly resilient skin.

More and more I'm able to walk away from a people-encounter without suffering for hours over things like, Did I talk too much? Was I too opinionated? Did I sound immature? Ignorant? Was I a busy-body? I am so misunderstood! I was misjudged! (Should I have announced this blog post on Facebook--or will they think I'm tooting my horn?)

I'm hanging what people think and going to take the bandages off.

The Unarians

I watched a documentary about the Unarians--a group of interdimensional pseudoscientists who believe aliens of higher intelligence--the "Space Brothers"--will soon come to earth to show us the right way to live and be. They will make us people of peace and not war, love and not hate. After showing us the way, they will make for us a new and eternal home, full of everything good.

Poor souls. You can't blame them. Wouldn't we love to believe that someone very human but also very perfect would call Himself our brother, come from a heavenly place and live among us, show us how to live, offer to make us just like Him, and then promise us a better and enduring home than what we now have?

Imagine that.

Christian Genius

I'm pretty sure he's a genius. Definitely one of the most intelligent persons with whom I've ever conversed. A graduate of Berkeley and Cornell, he spends his days playing with chemicals and debating the difficult questions. He can speed-read a page faster than I can say, "Did you really read it?" What's more, he remembers every detail.

I enjoy spending time with this fascinating Chinese-American who eats deer hearts, makes music and speaks a few languages. But it's not his brains that impress me the most. It's his heart.

"Jason the Genius" is a born-again Christian. As if this isn't paradoxical enough, it was how he converted that amazes me the most. I would have guessed Jason saw the light while debating intelligent design and evolution on campus, or while reading apologists like McDowell or Zacharias. For years I've insisted that we can only reach intellectuals through reason. "The mind is their door to the heart." Jason proved me wrong.

It wasn't through philosophy, new scientific discoveries or historical evidence that Jason came to Christ. Amazingly enough, he heard the simple gospel message at a vacation Bible school as a twelve-year-old. Rather than reason it away with his sharp mind, he embraced it with a humble and receptive heart. Something clicked in his spirit when he heard the truth--We need a Savior. It can't be us. It can't be just God. It must be God becoming one of us. In an instant, it all made perfect sense and a young boy made his way to the altar.

But Jason didn't check his brains at the door. I'd love to see any agnostic challenge him on matters of faith.

Jason moved away recently and our family will miss him greatly. He is an inspiration to me, and an example of one who is truly sold-out to Jesus and trusting Him with his entire life. His is a solid faith, the stuff of devoted saints willing to go the way of the Cross. I'll never forget the night we sat around the computer with Jason, watching his idea of a great movie--a document of the suffering underground church of China. This--more than seeker-friendly, happy-clappy church is what attracts Jason. I was sobered.

Jason is living proof that what Paul wrote in I Corinthians 2 is true: the things of the Spirit (God's Spirit) can only be discerned, understood, known, through our spirit--not our intellect. The wisdom of God is foolishness to man. And it is with "the heart"--not the mind, that one "believes unto righteousness" (Romans 10:10). That explains why people all over the world--of every shape, size, color and intelligence quota--are finding out that Jesus is indeed "the way, the truth and the life."

We will miss you, Jason. Keep the faith.

Church at a Bar

I was discussing spiritual things with a Jehovah's Witness several years ago and she made a comment that caught me off guard:

"You Christians are always bickering over petty issues. You're hopelessly divided over doctrines and methods. You've got your splits, cliques and denominational walls. Who would want to be a part of that?"

Ouch.

Having nothing to say and knowing she was right, I changed the subject.

I wish I could have known back then to say this: There is a difference between uniformity and what she claimed to have in her church--unity.

Uniformity depends on everyone seeing eye to eye, agreeing on all points of the law, worshipping the same way and holding to all the same convictions. Been there, done that.

True unity, on the other hand, is not dependent on any of the above. In fact, the more diverse the crowd, the more meaningful the "unity of the Spirit," as described in the book of Ephesians. When believers are unified, the only common ground they need is love for our Lord Jesus. All differences fade away in the light of Who He is.

Ephesians says Jesus came to tear down the walls we put up between ourselves. While so many Christians insist on keeping those walls erected, some are choosing to keep them down. I saw evidence of this today, of all places, in a nightclub.
Passersby on route 352 in Big Flats may have wondered what was happening at Tags on this bright Sunday morning. They may have been surprised to find out that we were having---church?

Yup. If we call ourselves followers of Jesus, we should hang out in the places He did. And scripture makes it clear--he liked being with "nonnies." He had lunch in their homes and sat in their taverns. It was the religious folk who were disturbed by this habit of His.

But what I most enjoyed about this morning's gathering was not just our willingness to rub shoulders with "the world," but the fact that five churches closed their doors today and gathered together to celebrate our common thread--Jesus Christ. What made it so remarkable was the diversity in the crowd. I know most of the ministers represented, and many people in their churches. Let me tell ya, we aren't cut from the same mold. We worship, believe and baptize differently. We vary in all things color, age, education and political persuassion. Why last year even the local Rabbi and his wife joined us. If there were ever reason to raise walls, the several hundred people gathered at Tags today had them.

But our unity centered on our love for a Man Who loves us all.

The service began with a time of praise and worship, led by band members from different congregations. A dance team performed a very hip-hop rendition of "Awesome God" and then we enjoyed an inspiring message by Bob Cornwall, a man not affiliated with any church, but who travels from place to place encouraging believers to stay unified and fulfill the Great Commission. Afterward people purchased food prepared by Tags and sat around catching up on each others' lives, or getting to know one another for the first time. I looked around; people of Catholic, Methodist, Weslyan, Pentecostal, CMA and Baptist backgrounds were smiling, laughing and stuffing their faces. No one seemed to be quibbling over predestination and free will. It was a little (and quite literal, to be sure) taste of Heaven on earth. There is simply no other religion in which members can be so divided and yet united at the same time.

Then again, this isn't exactly a religion, is it? The Church is a family, a group of people in relationship. You know how your own family members can differ in points of view, yet the family name unites you. We have the same family name. What's more, because of the cross, we're blood related! I could start preaching right here.

It was suggested we send a thank you card to the owner of Tags for the free use of his facility. I hope many people follow through. It is my hope that someone looking on at this event today took note that: we are grateful for such a lovely meeting place, we left it clean, and we love one another. Who knows, maybe that girl I talked to years ago was looking on with curiosity....

Have You Seen My Self?

I was recently browsing videos at the local library and glanced at one entitled, "Zen--the Search for Self." I thought, Yuck.

Please don't misunderstand--I'm not bashing Buddhists. I deeply love and respect people of all faiths. But if you don't mind me saying so, I'd rather not go looking for "self." I'm trying desparately to lose it. And strangely, the more I succeed at doing so, the better I feel about myself!

I'm discovering myself really for the first time--the enhanced version, my truest self, the person I was intended to be. As songwriter Sarah Groves said, "I just showed up for my own life."

I've chosen a "religion" (if you want to call it that) that teaches that in order to find one's "self" (or "life"), one has to lose it. Self has to be buried, reckoned as dead. One's life has to become "hidden in God." How different from endless meditation on "self," trying to find oneself, to make a name for oneself.

Every now and then I lose perspective and get full of "self" -- either through feeling like I've said or done something really special and that everyone should applaud me, or through facing my own stupidity and feeling swallowed up in the foolish words of my big mouth. I have to say, whichever way, being so "full of self" feels really gross.

A humble harpist came to our church some time ago and told the "sock" illustration: I am like a sock and Jesus is the matching sock--my soul mate. The man then interlocked the socks together like one does when folding clean laundry and said that God wants me to be lost in Him, and He in me, like that mated pair of socks. I rather like that idea.

I don't think any one of my socks, if it were alone, and could talk, would be going around saying, "I need to find my self." Drawers full of unmated socks are bothersome.

I recently was at prayer and asked God, "Show me where I'm proud and arrogant." Then I quickly changed the request to, "Better yet, just let me hide myself in You. And what I don't know won't hurt me." And "my meditation of Him became sweet" (Ps. 104). It's really a wonderful thing, the loss of self.

God Wants You--RICH?

I was raised in the Bible Belt and still remember falling asleep on carpeted convention room floors under the voices of great men of God like Kenneth Hagin, Kenneth Copeland and the like. I was only a kid but knew that the faith they preached about was what God wants us to have. I knew I served a God that yearned for us to ask that we may receive. My Heavenly Daddy wants to bless.

But I fear that much of the church has taken the beautiful truth of the Word/Faith teachers and twisted them into a "God wants you rich" prosperity doctrine that makes God look more like Santa Claus. Get your list ready, He's coming to town.


I recently heard a minister say, "Financial lack makes you depressed and envious. It hinders God from using you in the world."

Are you kidding me? It's the response (the wrong response) to lack that makes you this way. Can you imagine someone telling Mother Teresa that God wants to "prosper" her, that she doesn't have to remain under a "spirit of poverty?" What if the prosperity message was taken to the underground church in China, to the saints who are joyfully imprisoned and impoverished for their loyalty to Jesus? Would the Fransican monks have wanted to drive around in a Lexus? Would someone dare tell missionary Heidi Baker--who willingly lives with the bare minimum among the poorest of the poor--that her material lack is an "attack of the devil?"

The apostle Paul did very gladly "spend and (was) spent" for people's sakes, suffering hunger, near nakedness and unspeakable hardship. He never once implied that He was waiting for his "financial breakthrough." And what's more--he wasn't depressed or envious either. Why I'll bet he was the happiest man of his time, and he was dirt poor. And what income he did generate wasn't through leaching on the local believers. He made tents.

Perhaps we should stop blaming financial struggles on the devil and the curse of our ancestors. Instead of acting as though God will wave a magic wand and get us out of debt--why not get to the real issue? We're stupid with our money. Bring in the Larry Burketts to teach the church how to handle finances wisely, and we won't need any more prosperity sermons.

For that matter, what if we had a paradigm shift that caused us to start seeing the needs of the world more than our personal comfort?

For Thinking People Only

I suppose many nonbelievers assume I'm like a lot of "religious people" who are going on blind faith. Nothing could be farther from the truth! As a matter of fact, it was the employment of reason, intelligence, logic, scientific and historical evidence that set me on the journey to belief in the God I've come to know and love.

Calling all scientists, philosophers and other thinking people: If you're at all interested in exploring whether Christianity might actually be based on something more substantial than emotional prejudice and blind faith, I'd like to introduce to you Ravi Zacharias, who produces a radio broadcast entitled, "Just Thinking." Dr. Zacharias travels from university to university defending the Christian faith with astounding answers to the most challenging questions. You can hear the recordings of these archived Q & A sessions on-line.

It's been said that if a person does not believe in the God of the Bible it's due to either a mind issue or a heart issue. For some, there's a willingness to believe, but a simple lack of information keeps the mind from embracing the Truth. For others, all the scientific and historical evidence in the world will not ever convince--for there is a heart that truly does not want to believe.

I hope someone decides to open his or her mind and/or heart (which ever is necessary) and take a listen to a Zacharias podcast: http://www.rzim.org/.

I've had my fill of emerging church books for a while. They were delicious, but I have a truth ache. Time to put aside the king's delicacies and have some fruits and veggies for ten days. Please pass the Bible, with a sprinkling of Lewis, McDowell and Zacharias on the side.

Litmus Test for a Healthy House-Churcher

I recently came across a house-church website whose mission is to " inspire those whose spiritual hungers cannot be met in the conventional expressions of Christianity."

Woah there, Betsy. Who ever said anyone's spiritual hungers can be met "in the conventional expressions of Christianity?" I certainly have always known mine cannot. It's by every word that comes from His mouth. It's through my daily walk with Him, feeding on His Word.

Greg Dawkins and Bill Hybels of Willow Creek Church in Chicago have been surveying America's churches to find out whether the needs of the congregations are really being met. They found that for seekers, and new and growing Christians, the local church is doing it's job. But seasoned, mature believers are giving a different report: they are increasingly becoming dissatisfied--even dissillusioned with the local church.

Dawkins and Hybels diagnosed this problem with the fact that church leaders are not helping their people to become "self-feeders." I would agree with that. I think house churchers recognize this too, but it seems their way of dealing with it is to leave the local church and continue self-feeding.

Here's an idea: What if we "self-feeders" stayed in the nest and started feeding the baby birds (teaching them how to become self-feeders)? Oh I know God wants us to get dangerously on the edge of conventional thinking and leave the comfort and safety of reliance upon a pastor and the "system...." but try this on for size: What if we became so much "like a little child"--so "poor in spirit"--that we saw an opportunity in the local church to roll up our sleeves and get working, forgetting about whether or not our needs are being met? Just what if we started showing up to serve? I can't help but wonder if Willow's statistics would change.

None-the-less, I'm just as embarrassed by many aspects of conventional Christianity as anyone. Some days I come close to throwing in the Church towel and becoming a spiritual hippie. I'm glad people like Hybels and Dawkins (Barna and the like) are waking us up to the fact that the local church is failing miserably in a lot of ways. And I respect my brothers and sisters who choose to leave it. As for me, I choose to stay in for now, speak up and affect change. Someone's gotta!

(Sep. 2008 update) I'm not against house church. There are a lot of healthy house churches whose members are in it for the right reasons. But unfortunately, statistics show that many house churches are made up of disgruntled or disillusioned church members. Here's my litmus test for a "healthy house churcher:" Can you visit a local church at any time and feel at home with the Body of Christ? Or has it been years since you've darkened the door of a church? Is your speech about the "organization" laced with cynicism--or humility? Are your church-going friends uncomfortable bringing up the subject around you, fearing they'll be judged as being "still stuck in the institution?" Would your friends hesitate to invite you to hear a special speaker at their church--or do they shy away from the topic in order to keep peace?

On Excellence in Churches

If my "Cheesy Church" post left a bad taste in your mouth, try a bite of this.

I've been having conversations with an individual on the subject of excellence. This person and I have in common that we appreciate excellence on all levels and in all areas of life. In a word, we both hate, well, cheesiness. Sloppiness. It bugs us both when things aren't carried out in a professional manner. And church is the place where we most desire to see things done right.

However my friend and I part company when it comes down to the extent that we value so-called excellence. He recently left his church in search for a place where the leadership has it all together. I wish him luck. Actually--I give him a year. My guess? The honeymoon will eventually be over and alas, he'll be on to greener grass.

(And don't get me wrong--he has good reason to move on. The things that drive him crazy in churches and among ministers annoy me to no end.)

As I've reflected on my friend's decision to go in search of church-done-his-way, I've been asking myself these questions: What am I really after in church? Why am I there? What is and should be my--our--sole purpose in going to church week in and week out?

These questions are answered loudly and clearly every time I see a watery-eyed, broken soul drinking in truth during the adult Sunday School class. Or light-bulbs coming on as I dramatize Bible stories for the children in Kids' Church. Every time someone makes the walk to the altar and reconnects with God I'm reminded of the answer: It's not about me. It's about them.

To the little old ladies that faithfully prepare a Sunday School lesson every week, to the young youth workers who exhaust their energies in planning outreaches, and to the busy mothers who invite visitors over for Sunday dinner--thank you. Thank you for placing people above professionalism in the things you value in church. It may never get better. Some things never change. The sermons may be dry, the stage may look tacky, and the restrooms may stink. But we're all just people trying our best to keep people a priority. I really think God is far more concerned about that than getting us to sharpen up our style.

If you want to talk professional--how about being professional in the way we love each other? Isn't it a rather sloppy love that says, "I love this church and this pastor until it no longer measures up to my standards of excellence?" Contrast that attitude with "professional agape": "I love this church and this pastor because they are God's people and He loves them too." And if you really want a PhD in God's kind of love, try repeating this to yourself until it gets in your heart: "I am no better." Now that's excellence.

Cheesy Church

When I was eighteen I had a friend whose father was just starting his own church. I remember the tiny metal warehouse he rented in which to hold services. I attended one of the very first meetings and wondered where those humble and small beginnings might lead him. When I visited my hometown last summer (eighteen years later) I had a chance to find out.

Imagine my astonishment when a parking attendant led me in front of a multi-million dollar, several thousand member, state-of-the-art facility complete with a cafe, giant TV monitors and a Nickelodeon-like children's program.

As the service progressed and I took in the wonder of it all, I asked myself, What were the keys to success here? What is the difference between this and what I see so much of elsewhere--"cheesy church?"

Of course there are entire books devoted to the subject of how to grow a church, but if I might offer my puny opinion, here's what I came up with:


1. Progressive worship: If you sing modern worship choruses, keep them relatively current. For years I've seen churches take good songs and sing the life right out of them (I've gotten all I'm going to get out of "Come, Now is the Time to Worship"). And for the love of all that's holy, please don't ditch the hymns.

2. Relevant preaching: People that attend church on Sunday mornings have real life issues. If the message doesn't hit home, home is where they'll stay next time.

3. Excellence: It's a shame that secular entertainers outdo the church in this area. It seems that you have to look to the world for things like: a professional sound, an attractive website, and everything else on down to clean restrooms and floors. If we don't excel in these simple areas, why should people expect us to excel in the more important ones?

4. Authenticity: I've come to realize that authentic Christianity--not "Churchianity"--is what people, especially the younger generation, are craving. We need to ditch the fluff and stick with real stuff. Bake sales, attendance books, members-only mail boxes, floral arrangements, panty hose, offering plate pitches, and long announcements were nice back in the day. But there is a body emerging within the Body that is increasingly being turned off by such plethora. They're tired of Cheesy Church. (The pastor of one church I visited actually wore a suit that was yellow with three-inch wide brown stripes. No kidding.)


Speaking of authentic Church, I recently visited a church that I believe just may be in the beginning stages of what I described earlier. I hope they're looking for a bigger building....

Here's what I experienced at the Vineyard Church of Ithaca (http://www.ithacavineyard.org/): I walked into a gym bustling with a very diverse crowd of mostly college age kids. The service began with a half hour of coffee, donuts and mingling (they had me right there). The lead pastor then promptly began his teaching. I was expecting some kind of pre-show, so I had to scramble to get out my notebook and scarf down my french cruller. The message was relevant and applicable. I took notes for the first time in years. And then we worshipped for a while. The band was simple, but they sounded good. The songs were fresh.

We visitors were smiled at, greeted warmly and given a gift bag (picked up at a table) containing a professional music cd and the book The Case for Faith (perfect for college town intellects). We weren't forced to stand and tell our life story. We were allowed to simply enjoy. And enjoy it I did.

And the best part? Visitors were encouraged (in the bulletin) to fill out the church's on-line visitor survey. Wow! I've always felt every church should have a suggestion box.


One final and very important note: Don't assume I'm equating "success" with large numbers, talent or high tech equipment. There are plenty of churches that have all these and more, and yet are failing miserably in weightier matters such as preaching the truth and sincerely caring for the flock. By the same token, there are those small, humble gatherings that offer what I consider the finest in authentic Christianity. I belong to one such group--about eight of us who meet regularly to pray with and edify each other. We've become a family that bears each other's burdens. A replica of the early Church. Success!

Say No to Crack!

I am about to become an instant prude—a totally uncool, narrow-minded, old-fashioned biddy. It’s been nice knowing you.

The fast-approaching hot weather compels me to finally say what I’ve always kept in the confines of my home and discussed with only my husband. To be blunt, I hate immodesty.

Oh brother, I hear you groan. She’s one of those.

Actually, I’m one of many who are hesitant to voice what we wives have been thinking and feeling about the issue. And that is this: Please cover your cleavage, loosen your shirts, lengthen your shorts, and say no to “crack.”

I know you’ve heard and been turned off by pleas like this before, but perhaps no one has ever explained why it is and should be an issue—especially for Christian women in the church. Simply put, our men—our husbands, sons, worship leaders, pastors, elders, nephews and brothers—are human. It’s not that they are perverts and need to redirect their eyes. And it’s not that we wives are insanely jealous and insecure about our own bodies. The fact of the matter is, normal--even Christian--men are visual. God made them that way. And he gave them wives to look at half naked--not you.

When my husband and I are in Christian circles, he's been known to mutter about scantily clad women, “Put on some clothes.” He’s speaking for all the guys. It’s hard enough when they’re out there during the week, constantly fighting the temptation to “look.” Church should be a safe haven for them. Women should respect their brothers in Christ in the way they dress. And they should respect their friends’ marriages. If you think my husband has “a problem,” read For Women Only, by Shauntie Feldhan. You might be surprised at how men are wired.

Yes, there are those men who do have a particularly serious problem in this area. Put yourself in the place of their wives. You come into church hoping your husband finds deliverance from his addiction to porn. Instead, there’s one more hindrance in the row in front of you—the lady who doesn’t respect you enough to dress decently. She worships God impressively, while she makes her brother stumble.

It never ceases to amaze and sadden me that, while we'd never think of offering a beer to a recovering alcoholic, we don't think twice about tempting men with something infinitely more difficult to resist--a glance at our boobs, butt, thighs and belly.

On behalf of all of my brothers in Christ, let’s dress to help—not hinder them. I’ve been guilty too. I hate throwing out that cute red halter top. But I’ve got a responsibility to our men—and to please God.

You can be sure I'll take a lot of flack for this post--from Christians.

Oh, and check out what the guys have to say at http://www.crosswalk.com/11537027/page2/.

( For those freedom-flaunting individuals who embrace an "all-that-matters-is-love" philosophy, I challenge you with this: Look your best friend in the eye and tell her you're playing by the Golden Rule when you knowingly lure her husbands eyes to your skimpy-clothed body. I dare ya.)