Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. John 5:16b (NIV)
I have a confession to make. There is a sin that has bested me for years. I have tried to overcome it by sheer will power and grit, but it always overtakes me and I am left ashamed.
I am a glutton.
I don't think I'm alone. While we always think of gluttony as eating too much food, I don't think that's all there is to it. Gluttony does manifest itself in food consumption with me sometimes, but it's just as easily some other vice taken to excess.
This is not about a sudden need to lose weight or get in shape or fit into my favorite jeans. At 5' 6" and 150 lbs, I could certainly stand to lose some weight, but I am also pretty average by American standards.
This is about my propensity to stuff my hurt, my boredom, or my disenchantment about life with food or facebook or computer games or television.
There is a void in me that Jesus longs to fill.
But that takes too long, so instead I grab the nearest whatever that will release some endorphins and palliate the ache. Because that reprieve is only temporary, I want more, until I begin stuffing to the point of gorging and wind up with dulled senses or a stomach ache.
This is a problem on many levels, obviously.
We tend to minimize the sin of gluttony. After all, most churches are filled with gluttons and it seems like a mild sin...one that only hurts oneself. At the end of most church potlucks, it is common to hear some groaning and comments like, "Man, I overdid it." What would fellowship look like if it didn't include some gluttony?
God takes it seriously, however.
and put a knife to your throat if you are given to gluttony. Proverbs 23:2 (NIV)
Ouch! Do you remember the story of Sodom and Gomorrah? God destroyed those cities because of their wickedness, sparing only Lot and his family. What was their awful sin? Maybe not what you might think.
Sodom's sins were pride, laziness, and gluttony, while the poor and needy suffered outside her door. Ezekial 16:49 (NLT)
Gluttony interferes with my ability and my willingness to minister to the poor and needy around me. If I am spending money on snacks from the drive-thru because I've had a hard day, there is little left to sponsor an orphan. If I am wasting time on computer games or facebook because I'm trying to fill a void, there is little left of me to give to the family with whom God has entrusted me...the needy outside my (bedroom) door.
This is one of those "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" kind of sins. The kind we are deceived into thinking we should be able to handle on our own - more of a character flaw than actual sin.
But it is a sin.
And needs to be dealt with as such. So, here I am, confessing to you. There is power in public confession and I want to be set free from this. I want to be free to meet the needs around me. I want to let Jesus fill the void instead of stuffing it with a cupcake.
Will you pray for me?
(You can read part 1 of this post here.)
We drove around downtown for a bit before finally parking the 15-passenger kid mobile in front of a park. Shawn and I were nervous. It's one thing to charge out into the wild blue yonder on your own; it's a whole 'nother ballgame to lead eight children into it.
We headed for the nearest picnic table and passed out the Dixie cups and crackers. As I was filling them with juice, Shawn talked to the kids about communion and sacrifice. (Lest you think it was a solemn, sacred thing, Eon threw his cracker-he hates any cracker that isn't round-and Bo was gobbling his like Cookie Monster...crumbs flying. The middle kids missed the point and guzzled their juice and needed refills before we prayed, and I got on some tangent about the bread at the actual Last Supper resembling more chalupa shells from Taco Bell than Saltines from Aldi.) But, eventually, we blessed the bread and took it and blessed the cup and took it, too.
Just a family in a park, breaking bread together.
Ordinary, but holy.
There were some men nearby that looked to be homeless. Rather than overwhelm anyone with the sheer number of us, I opted to take our youngest with me while the others went off to play. I admit, I didn't do a very good job. Even though chatting people up is part of my job as a therapist, I was nervous. I sat on his bench without permission and instantly knew that was wrong...and rude. I asked for permission and he grunted. I took that as a yes and told him Happy Easter. I asked (see, I'm learning) if he'd like an Easter basket in a bag and showed it to him. He grunted again and reached for it. I stammered something stupid about candy and headed for the next guy, eager to escape my faux pas and crazy nerves.
More confident this time, I looked that man in the eye and told him Happy Easter and asked if I could sit. He agreed. I offered him a bag and he thanked me for it as he eyed the contents. I joked with him about everyone needing a Cadbury egg on Easter and he presented me with the hugest smile with the straightest yellow teeth I've ever seen. I relaxed. We chatted a bit about candy and about the beautiful weather.
Two strangers sitting in the park making small talk.
Ordinary, but holy.
While we were chatting, my nine-year-old was pushing Bo in his stroller, around and around the fountain, very fast, delighting in his shrieks of joy. She laughed with this child who once was a stranger, abandoned, but now is her brother of only six weeks. She set him free from the confines of the stroller and stayed with him as he explored.
A sister playing with her brother.
Ordinary, but holy.
On the other side of the fountain, Shawn spotted a man who might want a bag and asked seven-year-old Ben to go with him. I watched from a distance as Shawn, with humble posture, spoke to the man and they handed him a bag.
Just a dad teaching his oldest son about life and love.
Ordinary, but holy.
The rest of the afternoon was filled with delivering our bags, posing and smiling,
playing and climbing,
and just being together. We made mistakes. We learned a lot. We stepped out of our comfort zone. (It is my firm belief that if we step out of it often enough, our comfort zone will expand.) And we had fun. All agreed that it was a great day...one of the best Easters remembered.
A family enjoying each other and the day.
Ordinary, but holy.
What made it holy? It certainly wasn't because the Lakes' family was there. We were the ordinary. Our efforts to love the unloved, to make a sacrifice, to teach our children a better way did not create holiness.
Jesus was there. It was holy because we were there in His name, so He was there, too.
For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them. Matthew 18:20
He showed up. It was holy only because Jesus was there. I recognized him in the smiles of the homeless, in the laughter of my children, in the joy of a beautiful day. I don't know that anyone was impacted by our presence there that day, but we were impacted by His.
It is my prayer that we can recognize the holy in the ordinary not just on Easter, but today, tomorrow, and the next day. May we experience the holy so often that it becomes our normal, our ordinary, as well.
His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. 2 Peter 1:3
Life and godliness....the ordinary and the holy. Because of Jesus, we have everything we need for all of it. May we live it well.
Inspired by Jen Hatmaker's post, A Broken Hallelujah, our family did something different this Easter. Her words about the last supper and communion challenged me just as they did in her book, Interrupted.
I have always attended churches that take corporate communion about once a month or at least quarterly. Every time, the passage about Jesus at the last supper is read.
19 And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, "This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me." 20 In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, "This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you. (Luke 22:19-20)
Every time, it is emphasized that taking communion is what we're doing in remembrance of Him. When I was a child, we even had a wooden communion table with the words, "In remembrance of Me," engraved on the front of it.
But Jen makes the argument that Jesus wants us to be broken and poured out in remembrance of Him. It's sacrificing ourselves, our very lives, in service to Him.
My body, broken for you...do this.
My blood, poured out for you...do this.
(Read her post if you are unconvinced or, better yet, buy her book.)
It resonated with me.
It challenged my thinking and all that is in me welled up in response to the questions she posed:
"Perhaps rather than time and energy spent on ourselves, we ask: 'Who can our family serve? Where can we put our hands and hearts to use in Jesus' name?' Who in your city desperately needs hope but won't find their way to the sanctuary Sunday filled by people dressed to the nines?"
My husband and I prayed about it and went to bed. I woke up the next morning with an idea. It seemed kind of silly, but I thought it was from the Lord.
What if we made Easter baskets and gave them to the homeless?
I mentioned it to Shawn and he agreed, but the more I thought about it, the sillier it seemed. I worried about what people would think. I realized that our idea could be seen as a misguided attempt to teach our children a lesson while feeling better about ourselves. And I recognized that there is some truth to that.
I worried about what the homeless themselves would think. "Gee, thanks for the jellybeans, but what I really need is a steady income."
What we were wanting to do wasn't even a band-aid for their problems. For people who have so much stacked against them, who have so many needs, this wouldn't even meet one of them.
I could feel my passion slipping.
We discussed my idea with the kids. We explained about the last supper and the sacrifice of Jesus. We apologized for letting them think that Easter revolved around getting. We told them that they would still get baskets, but scaled down. All were on board (with the exception of five-year-old Zak, but he came around...eventually.)
I became more confident.
It occurred to me that people who spend all day, every day just trying to survive might appreciate something extra. If one person remembered a time when they felt loved, it would be worth it. Maybe this wasn't a terrible idea.
Easter dawned cloudy and chilly.
We spent the morning assembling the Easter baskets in a bag. Each gallon-sized bag contained all the traditional Easter candies, a travel-sized package of wet wipes, and a travel toothbrush and toothpaste. Each kid had a part in the assembly line.
My resolve began to wane, however. How will we even find homeless people?
It wasn't a legitimate fear. Our oldest daughter had the idea for sixteen random acts of kindness for her sixteenth birthday in November. We had no problems finding homeless to pass out sandwiches to for one of the acts. I was just looking for an excuse to stay home.
We heated and consumed the traditional meal my awesome husband had cooked the day before. Then it was naptime.
It was starting to feel like a lazy Sunday afternoon and the thought of venturing out seemed less and less appealing. Getting out the door is a major feat in this family and it's difficult to work up energy for the unknown.
I turned to Jesus.
"Jesus, please forgive me for making this about me. I so want it to be for You. Lead us. Bless our efforts. Help us to see," I sobbed.
We set off. I grabbed a bag of crackers, juice, and Dixie cups, as an afterthought.
This blog post by Jen Hatmaker moved me...to the point where I wanted to stand up and shout, "Hallelujah!" It is a relief when someone can articulate all that's been stirring in your heart.
I grew up in the evangelical church.
I was taught that people would come to Jesus through friendship evangelism...which meant that they would see my clean living and want what I have. I can count on no hands the number of times someone approached me and asked about Jesus after observing my non-alcoholic, G-rated lifestyle.
I was taught that loving people meant, basically, that you got along with the loud-mouth in the next cubicle or you refrained from flipping off the guy who swerved into your lane without signaling.
I was taught to stand up for righteousness. In other words, to vote Republican, call out sin, wage war against immorality in the world around me. Strangely, I've never known any attempt to keep people from sinning that resulted in someone actually being set free from sin.
I was taught that there is blessing in obedience. I was not taught, or at least not taught effectively, that often there is suffering, deep anguish, loss, and even death before the blessing, but that the blessing is far better because of it.
In my opinion, the church is ripe with disillusionment because of its focus on morality, to the detriment of everything else. We have become almost convinced that morality will save us, our families, and our country. Clearly, it will not.
We are a people who shoot our wounded and blame the victim. There is little room to wrestle with matters of faith, to voice a dissenting view, to meld real life with dogma.
People who are hurt or confused don't need platitudes and certainly do not need blame. They need a safe place to struggle. They need to know that they are loved, above all, and that they don't even need to agree to belong. They matter and their fears, their doubts, their confusion, their sin do not make them inferior or weaker. They simply make them human.
In my own church, I often feel that all my questioning (and sometimes dissenting) is looked on as a sign of weakness or immaturity. It is tempting to pretend that I have it all together so that I can be seen as the 43 year-old woman that's been a Christian for 39 years, the former Bible college student, the Baptist middle school graduate, the pastor's daughter, the ardent seeker of Jesus that I am, instead of the weaker sister or thorn in the side that I am perceived to be.
But, I want to be a bridge. I want to put my struggles out there in hopes that my authenticity will resonate with someone and they will find a safe place to be human, themselves.
I think the American church is missing the point.
It's time to stop focusing on ourselves and how "good" we can be. It's time we got off our moral high horse and got our hands dirty. It's time we started loving people because that's just who we are, and not because we want to change them or score another notch on our salvation belt.
It's time to live like Jesus.
He is worthy of so much more than our watered down version of His gospel. He is Emmanuel. God with us...with us in our suffering, with us in our doubts, with us in our need, with us in our struggling. He is not watching from afar, waiting for us to screw up or needing us to please Him with our own efforts at holiness.
He is here.
He is with us now...wanting to show hope through our hearts, wanting to shine light through our eyes, wanting to meet needs through our hands, wanting to share love through our lives.
He is a friend of sinners. Let's start there.
That for which I worked over a year has come to fruition. The adoption is complete and we are home. With that comes a huge sense of relief, but also a lingering anxiety. I feel almost like a PTSD-type reaction, like I can't really relax.
Spiritually, I'm spent.
While I could literally feel the prayers of people when we were in country, I couldn't help but respond to the darkness of the place. We were devoid of any Christian fellowship in a spiritually oppressive environment, going through a huge spiritual battle for the life of our son. Without the prayers of the saints at home, we may not have survived.
Glimpses of "normalcy" are what's keeping me going at present. A Bible study on my shelf that has nothing to do with adoption is beckoning me. A coffee date with my girlfriends in which we can discuss their lives is planned. A return date to work is already on the calendar.
Life goes on. I need it to just go on. I need to rest in the mundane and put the urgent behind me. I need to let the adrenaline seep from my veins. I need to get to a place where fear is not my default emotion.
I'm not sure how to get there, but I believe gratitude is a good place to start.
I don't usually make resolutions. I can't handle the guilt.
But, I sense something stirring in my heart. I think God has some resolutions for me. I think He wants to further change my paradigm. I think He's going to rock our world yet again.
Foolishly, I thought adopting "B" was our big thing for God. Kind of like paying our dues and then we're done. As if God needs our "big thing" and as if we're ever done serving Him.
I see now that He's been slowly changing our perspective and our view of Him and our role in His Kingdom. Adoption is just the beginning.
So, for 2013, I resolve to go with His flow. I resolve to seek Him, to serve Him, and to surrender to Him. I resolve to get out of His way and let Him move in me and through me.
Bring. it. on.
This response to the horrific tragedy in Newport, CT has me reeling, yet, given the white, middle class, American church's propensity for blaming the victim, I'm not surprised.
School shooting? Shouldn't have taken God out of public schools. (Pretty sure the Amish allow Him in their schools, and yet...?)
People feel the need to categorize. If we can find a reason that excludes us, then we can breathe easy that it won't happen here. I understand that, but when Christians are not just falling into that trap, but rather leading the charge, I'm nauseated. How did we get to this place that, instead of simply weeping with those who weep, we feel the need to point the finger? They must have done something wrong.
Because in our current theology, only those who do "wrong" things are subject to tragedy. Morality saves us. We are a group who have elevated morality so high that we equate it with righteousness. We are so focused on living a moral, good life, or appearing to anyway, that we ignore the hurt around us. It's exhausting to worry about yourself and your behavior all the time.
We have convinced ourselves that by living a "pure" life, we have separated ourselves from the world and will win people over by our goodness.
No one will ever be saved because you picketed an abortion clinic or refused to have a beer on a Saturday night! It is simply unhelpful to the lost if you have your radio set to the Christian station and refuse to sit through an r-rated movie.
What if being separate means we care for those no one else will care for? What if it means putting aside our own comfort or future or wants in order to pour into the world around us?
The only way people will be saved is if we get our hands dirty and our hearts broken. If we jump in with those stuck in the mire and begin to lift them out. If we open our homes to the orphan, if we financially support the pregnant teen, if we provide respite to the parents of a child with mental illness, if we look beyond our noses to the wounded world around us.
Someone I know reposted this article, which I love, on facebook and rebutted it, stating that God is a jealous God and that He is just and that He rebuked leaders and didn't worry about "offending."
I would respond that the leaders He rebuked were religious leaders, who were too busy pointing fingers to lend a hand. He is a jealous God. I believe He is jealous that, in our pride, we have exalted our own goodness and morality and placed them on the throne next to Him.
I suspect that it makes Him angry that in a time of unspeakable tragedy, there are those who would sit back in His name and say, "Tsk, tsk. Too bad for you that you brought this on yourself."
Our pride is sickening. But worse, it negates the gospel. If I can be good enough to find favor with God, then why do I need Jesus?
The Bible clearly states that it rains on the just and the unjust. (Matthew 5:45) Jesus said that in the world we will have trouble. (John 16:33) The Apostle Paul was shipwrecked multiple times and imprisoned. The early Christians were burned alive and mauled in coliseums. The cold reality is that this life will, at times, seem unbearable, no matter how "good" we are.
Instead of pointing fingers or pontificating on the "why", can we not just weep and grieve with those whose world has just collapsed? Can we not empathize to the point of gut wrenching sobs? Can we not be vulnerable and humble enough to admit that the only thing that saved our own children was location?
And can we not look beyond our noses and reach out to the broken hearted around us? Instead of invoking the name of Jesus while pointing a finger, can we not just whisper His name while lending a hand?
