Slapping Myself Against the Glass

Tonight as I was going through the house, turning off the lights, I noticed a tree frog squatted outside on the windowsill. I see him there on a regular basis; in fact, I’ve gotten in the habit of looking for him. He seems almost friendly, although he startles me when he pops up out of nowhere to nab a moth fluttering at the glass.

Maybe it was the hopeful expression on his face – if a frog can be said to have hope – but for the first time ever, I wondered what he would do if I put my fingertip against the pane. I drew my finger lightly over the glass just above him. WHAP! He launched himself against the window. Getting nothing, he closed his mouth and settle down on the sill to wait. Now I wondered how much of a short term memory a frog has. So again, I ran my fingertip across the pane. WHAP! He hit the glass, his mouth wide open and his pink tongue hanging out. Was a frog capable of learning? I pondered the thought and then, once more, rubbed my finger over the window, despite the smears I was making. SMACK! With as much vigor as before, he threw himself in pursuit of what turned out to be nothing.

At this point I stopped teasing him, partly because I felt sorry for him, but mostly because he reminded me so painfully of myself. How often has Satan drawn something across my path – prestige, possessions, pursuits – and fooled me into thinking it was what I wanted? How often have I jumped at what looked like a good thing, only to find myself unsatisfied? How long will it take me to learn – or remember - that God is the only food that will satisfy me?

Half an hour later I tried to fool him one last time. He wouldn’t look at my fingertip but kept his eye on me instead. Is a tree frog smart enough to realize who is behind the deception? Am I?

Bread-and-Water Worship

On my dining room wall hangs a picture of Li Ying, a Chinese sister in Christ who has been in prison since 2001 for printing an “illegal” Christian magazine. Seeing her picture reminds me to pray for her.

On Sundays Li Ying is alone in her cell. She has no Bible to read, no pastor to encourage her. If she is struggling, no other believers lay hands on her and pray with her. No one holds out to her the elements of Communion; no one collects her offering. Perhaps she kneels on the floor of her cell and prays or sings quietly, a capella. Hers is a bread-and-water kind of worship.

Over here, we drive over paved roads to gather freely with a hundred other believers in our climate-controlled, carpeted sanctuary. Talented musicians skillfully play their instruments as we sing a variety of songs. We open our Bibles and follow along as the pastor teaches us to understand and apply the Word of God. After the Communion feast we laugh and hug and make plans for Sunday dinner.

Imagine then that several of us decide to dine at a gourmet restaurant with linen cloths and lighted candles on each table, and a world-class chef in the kitchen. As the waitress seats us, I push away the candlestick and set up my laptop. Ignoring your conversation, I barely acknowledge the waiter when he offers me a menu. Distractedly I mumble for him to bring me a corn dog and a Dew. Would you not ask yourself why I even bothered coming? Would you point out to me that I was cheating myself, missing out on the exquisite food and drink available to me?

Next Sunday when Li Ying draws near to God, He will be waiting for her. He will bring to remembrance the Word He planted in her heart. Nothing in the cell needs distract her from His presence. She will have no fundraiser items to deliver or borrowed books to return. She will have no text messages to receive or send. She will bring no offering but herself. He will be her Communion Feast.

Perhaps I am the bread-and-water worshipper.

All Is Calm - Maybe

On the Friday and Saturday before Christmas, we drove up to Randy’s folks. Smells of Mom’s cooking met us at the door when we arrived and teased us until supper time. We gathered around the table, gave thanks to God, and started filling plates. Six-year-old Laura sat at the table and sighed contentedly. “Ham . . . green beans . . . rolls . . . . . I’ve always been waiting for a meal like this.” Just busted us all up.

Saturday noon the cousins came over and the eight kids under twelve had a blast exchanging gifts and chasing and playing all over the property, occasionally running past the dessert table and grabbing another tidbit. It was a day when we followed the parenting principle of benevolent neglect. That evening as we were packing up the car, eight-year-old John started fussing that he didn’t feel well. He was overheated and sugared up, so we packed a couple gallon Ziploc bags for the three hour home trip, just in case. After a couple hours’ drive we pulled into an Arni’s to give our oldest son a turn driving. All the girls were in dire need of a pit stop. Being the Good Mom that I am, I let Laura go first. Of course there’s only one bathroom, one stool. Laura was thoughtfully contemplating whether or not she was done. I finally told her to switch me places; she could think standing up for a minute. Meanwhile older sister Katherine kept banging the door every 20 seconds. I started to get annoyed. “Just a minute, willya!” “It’s John. He’s sick.” And I heard him wailing “Daaaddy” but Daddy was in the car, wondering what’s taking us so long.

So I quickly got myself presentable enough to open the door for him. Laura being modest reached for her ankles to pull up her wind pants. CRACK! She hit her forehead on the corner of the sink. “Oh honey, that had to hurt! Are you okay?” I asked. She straightened up and took her hand away from her eye; there was blood all over the place. It was all so interesting, John forgot he was sick. I folded some paper towels into a cold compress to stop the bleeding quickly, and sent Katherine for Randy, who dug out the Children’s Advil I’d had the foresight to pack. The cut could have used a stitch, but it was in her brow, where in time the scar wouldn’t show that much. I decided that with the children’s Christmas program at church the following morning, the trauma of a late evening ER visit wouldn’t have been worth it. “Laura, I think you’re just going to be a shepherd with a shiner.”

Back into the car and on the road again! At least for another 20 minutes. As Dan idled the van at a stop sign, John started hurling. I ordered Dan to pull into the lot at the garage across the street, where we all threw open the doors and jumped out into some fresh air. I took John back into a muddy alley between the buildings so we’d at least be out of the wind. After a while he settled down. “You all done?” He looked at his Ziploc bag and thought a minute. Then he cricked up one corner of his mouth, looked at me and said, “I’ve always been waiting for a meal like this.” I just about collapsed. I had to lean against the building I was laughing so hard.

After that the rest of the holiday was pretty calm. We drove the last half hour home, tucked everyone in and had a cup of hot tea. It’s not the holiday memory we expected to make, but we’re smiling just the same.

Bare Branches

November is the ugliest month. The brilliant fall colors are gone and the days are growing shorter. The sky is gray; the fields are gray. Even my mood turn gray, so I bundle up and, as Grandma would say, “go out and get the stink blowed off.”

Walking the lane in October, I am encouraged by the parallels between our lives and the changing seasons. God gives us spiritual springtimes, full of hope and promise and newness. He gives us summers when we are ripe with fruit, and seasons of victory when our lives reflect God’s presence with all the glory of sugar maples in autumn.

But what about November? The trees drop their leaves and bear no fruit. What beauty can we find in barrenness?

When we brave the gloom to venture outdoors, we discover the essence of a tree. We crane our necks to look up into the mighty trunk and branches of a majestic white oak, so strong and steadfast. Then we let our gaze drop to linger on the limbs of a dogwood growing beneath it, twining gracefully and quietly in dappled half-shadows. We see the smooth, silvery bark on a beech growing beside a shaggy hickory and even gray becomes beautiful. But these bare branches would die and fall to the ground to rot, except for one reason:

They abide.

When the air about them is cold and dry, they abide. When the wind is bitter and rough, they abide. The trees stretch their roots down beneath the dust and dead grass to the source of life, and even if a storm should tear off a branch, the wood beneath is still green. Though there be no fruit, no leaves, still there is life. There is the beauty of promise.

Novembers reveal the essence of the believer. All else is stripped away until we see the trunk and branches of trust. Roots reach beneath the despair and fear to seek the Life that sustains, and the believer abides. “Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial.” (James 1:12)

The psalmist and the chronicler call us to worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness. To be holy is to be set apart for a special purpose. When we set ourselves apart to God, when we entrust ourselves fully to Him in our barren times, our bare trusting branches become a thing of beauty, and we need not fear November.

Worship

“Here I am to worship. Here I am to bow down.”

Well, I’m here. I can at least say that much. But God, I don’t feel much like worshiping. I have a terrible headache and the music makes it pound. I’m tired and I don’t want to stand. I’m grumpy and I’d rather just stay home. I’m worried and discouraged and overwhelmed by my circumstances. How can I think of worshiping when there’s so much on my mind? Over there stands one who has offended me; I don’t want to join with her. Can we just go right to the sermon and get out of here, please?

“Here I am to say that You’re my God. You’re altogether lovely, altogether worthy, altogether wonderful to me”

God, how much are you worth to me? I’m looking at my struggles and my hurts. Can I tear my eyes from these and turn them to you? Look at your faithfulness to me. Look at your mercy on me. Look at your provision for me. Look at your love for me. Your goodness. Your kindness. Your mighty hand. Do these mean more to me than my struggles? Can I proclaim your worth in the hard times? Am I willing?

“And I’ll never know how much it cost to see my sin upon that cross.”

Instead of worshiping you, they spit in your face. Will I spit in your face by refusing to worship? Will worshiping you this day cost me more than my sins cost you? Will I add to your cost with my stubbornness and pride?

“Here I am to worship.”

Oh God . . . oh, my Lord God . . .

(Song lyrics by Tim Hughes)

He Knows

The next time you’re with a half dozen women - at lunch with some coworkers or swinging the kids at the park - take a good look at them. In all likelihood, one or two of them carry a memory of a time when they were assaulted. In a typical congregation this may be true for 35 or 40 women.

Scripture tells us in Isaiah 53:3 that Jesus bore our griefs and carried our sorrows. But how can He make that claim? What does He know about being a woman? He came to earth as a man, in society that treated women like property.

According to the gospel of Matthew, after Jesus was sentenced to crucifixion, the soldiers guarding Him gathered the entire battalion to watch as they stripped Him, slapped Him around and made sport of Him. They didn’t humiliate Him secretly in some hidden place, but publicly. They did it for kicks, because the power they had over Him made them feel strong. Jesus knows the shame.

He was also heartbreakingly vulnerable. No sin had ever come between Him and the Father. He was more innocent than any little child ever was, but He allowed sin - our sin - to rob Him of His innocence. He knows that pain.

But our sin does not diminish His holiness. God does not look at Jesus and see Him used and stained with sin. Hebrews 7:26 describes the risen Christ as “holy, innocent, undefiled.” In the same manner, we who are alive to God in Christ Jesus, walk in newness of life, and His blood is like Scotchguard for our souls: sin’s stain does not penetrate, and we are precious and holy and pure in His sight.

If so many women carry such memories, then so do the men who abused them. Christ felt their shame and dishonor and reproach when He bore it for them on the cross. He put away their sin by the sacrifice of Himself. In Christ, each man now can be a man of “honor, sanctified, useful to the Master, prepared for every good work.”

Although He was God’s Son, Jesus learned obedience from the things which He suffered. He knew that His persecutors had been created in the image of God to do good works. Grieved at their hardness of heart, He responded with love and righteous anger, yet without sin. The Man who taught other to love their enemies and pray for those who persecute them, looked on the faces of His abusers and prayed, “Father, forgive them, for the know not what they do.” As God gave Him grace, Jesus bore the painful consequence of their sin, and rose up victorious over it.

God loves all His children and gives them all things freely. What He did for our Brother Jesus, He will do for us. If we ask Him, He can enable us to see our abusers not as they are, but as He meant them to be. He shows us how we can be angry, yet without sin. By His strength we can endure the pain, and by His grace, we can forgive. He may do all these things for us in a single moment, or He may allow us to work through them over a period of time. Either way, the result is the same: The Lord heals the brokenhearted, and binds up our wounds; He has risen over the past things, and He raises us in triumph with Him.

Scriptures

Romans 6:11
Romans 6:4
Psalm 69:19
Hebrews 9:28
1Timothy 2:21
Hebrews 5:8
Matthew 5:44
Luke 23:34
Mark 3:5
Ephesians 4:29
Romans 8:32
Psalm 147:3
Colossians 2:12, 15
Colossians 3:3

Everything In Its Place

I like an orderly house, one with lots of nooks and corners, one that has a comfortable niche for each thing within its walls. Nothing is strewn about; each item reposes in its own quiet abode, like robin eggs clustered in a nest.

We take our meals at a custom-built table that, when fully extended, stretches like a vast plain across the dining room. Off to the south in the breakfast nook stands a smaller table where no one dares to dine. Sunshine streams in the windows and illumines the reason why: the table is too crowded with projects to share space with a plate. A sewing machine and patterns pieces cut from blue and yellow calico have laid claim to much of the table top, but they compete with two bean plants, part of a science project. One plant is daily making a valiant effort to conquer more of the territory surrounding its quart mason jar. The second plant, sequestered in an up-ended shoebox to demonstrate its need for light, is not faring so well. The sewing basket in the center of the table fights for turf with a chunk of wasps’ nest that our littlest one found blown down from a tree. At the back of the table, a finger painting in blues and purples dries on a disposable surgical tray propped against an unopened jigsaw puzzle. Lurking on the periphery of it all is a lone bottle of glass cleaner, abandoned when someone was interrupted at her window washing.

As much as I like order, this clutter doesn’t bother me. It may look chaotic, but it is a controlled chaos. As one project is completed and another fulfills its purpose, I put things away or throw them out, and wipe the table clean. A few days later the cycle starts fresh again.

My life is a lot like my table. I prefer it to be neat and orderly and I want to organize and arrange every aspect. Seldom though does the unfolding day first consult my charts. The essential fabric – faith, family and friends – does claim the biggest portion of my life. But while some tendrils of my life thrive and grow, others languish. Unexpected happenings blow in from nowhere, and oftentimes my plans are interrupted. In Christ I’ve received all the pieces, but I haven’t put them all together yet. And though God sometimes draws a brush of new understanding across my life, the paint takes time to dry.

My circumstances may seem chaotic, but when the dust threatens to get too thick, there is One who is in control. He sorts through my life, putting the important things in their places, throwing out those which have served their purpose, and bringing His light to the shoots that are in darkness. He clears the way before me, and I can move on.