I loved, loved, loved being part of a “reformed” church and learning the catechism.  For me this was new, though I did grow up being “catechized” but not with the rich Westminister Catechism.  Even now, though I might enjoy reading through the questions and answers, I only really remember and think about the first few, and these are the children’s version, which suits me fine.

Who made you?

God made me.

What else did God make?

God made all things.

Why did God make you and all things?

God made me and all things for his glory.

How can you glorify God?

By loving him and doing what he commands.

Okay, I’ll be honest.  This is where it gets fuzzy for me.  I glorify God by loving him and doing what he commands.  This is obviously a Biblical truth.  It is also an underlying truth Biblically that I cannot  “love him and do what he commands.”  No matter how hard I try, no matter what resolutions I make or how many sermons I hear or worship songs I sing to try to pump me up, I simply cannot do it.  This is the part of the gospel we most often miss, and it is a huge loss to try to live the Christian life without it.

I can’t be good.  And the really wacky thing is that the more I think I am good and the more I try to make myself good, the less I really am glorifying God.  Huh?  Say what?  It is NOT my goodness that glorifies God. Let me say that again.  It is not my goodness that glorifies God.  It aint. 

Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor but the sick.”  It is the sick among us, the “not good” ones, who know we need a doctor.  And it is this need that is critical in glorifying God.

How do I glorify God?  By getting my wings broken one too many times and realizing I can’t fly without him.  By falling flat on my face until I stop trying life on my on terms, even if those terms were a very religious life.  By being bruised so much by a life that hurts so that I finally listen and believe when he says he loves me, just because.  These things glorify God.

How can I make such a shocking claim?  How can my failures, my lack, my need glorify God?  It really is a strange idea to our preconditioned ears and minds.  But what does it mean to “glorify” anyway?  It means to make big or to honor or to make shine.  Well, how exactly does our trying to be good glorify God’s goodness?  It can be (and often is) argued that we are supposed to try to reflect the goodness of God by our actions.  As a skilledcounselor (ahem) would ask, “How’s that working for you?”  I would argue that when we do this, we often delude ourselves into believing we are good in and of ourselves and we get the glory for it.  Not much lifting up or making big of God in that, is there?  I would also argue that this kind of living isn’t often very attractive to others, because it seems unattainable. 

On the other hand, when I fail, when I am weak, when I can’t love, can’t see, can’t understand, can’t even believe, in other words, when I need God, he is glorified.  He becomes bigger in my life, not bigger than he already is.  That is impossible.  But he is bigger in my life.  He can be seen a little brighter in my darkness.  I have been so freed up by this truth that I just want to shout it from the mountain tops!

But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.  He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things - and the things that are not - to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him.  1 Cor. 1:27-29

We glorify God most when we need him.  When we have nothing to boast of before him.  That way he looks good, not me.  He is strong, not me.  He is wise, not me.  He alone is God.

 Listen to this beautiful song by David Ruis entitled “Sweet Mercies.”  It says it all.

I live in the South, and I was raised in a Bible-beating, I mean Bible-believing church.  What I see and hear from the average “conservative” church these days disturbs me deeply.  My dear hubby turned on the television the other morning and found a local preacher broadcasting his church’s sermon.  I knew I wouldn’t like it, but  I listened along.  Here is what I heard in a nutshell:  1. Look at all the people “out there” who are hurting the cause of Christ.  (At this point he told stories including the governor of South Carolina and other anonymous “big sinner Christians.”)  2. People are watching you, so you better be good.  If not, you’ll hurt the cause of Christ too.  3.  Stop pretending you are good to everyone at church.  Let’s be real with each other.

Okay, I know that may be an unfair summary, but it is pretty close.  Anyone ever heard a sermon (or a thousand sermons) on a similar theme?  Each sentence is laden with guilt and brimming over with “try harder.”  At the same time, there is a sprinkle of “but let’s be real, we aren’t perfect” thrown in.  Anyone besides me see the inconsistency here?

Let me put this bluntly and simply.  This is NOT the gospel.  And those of us who are still listening to sermons like the above weekly or those of us who still have those “tapes” ingrained in our minds from growin up on them, well, we need to stop and rewind and record over.  Listening to this false gospel week after week or day after day is like a steady diet of fast food and junk.  It is the church’s equivalent to Fast Food Nation, and it is just as unhealthy and detrimental spiritually.  It has lulled the American church fast asleep in its fat, happy self.

Romans 1:16 says, “I am not ashamed of the gospel , because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyon who believes. . .”  Gospel is a greek word that means good news.  The true gospel of Jesus liberates and it is powerful and it changes lives and it is good news.  The problem is that the “evangelical” church in America is often not proclaiming this gospel at all.  Depending on the denomination, the “gospel” has a twist and a slant, but it is often a far cry from the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Let me illustrate.  I’ll start with some of the problems with the above-mentioned, typical sermon.  First of all, how can we expect our church members to “be honest and real with each other” when we are not doing the same?  When we talk about “those awful sinners out there”, we give everyone the idea that the church is not for sinners, not big ones anyway.  Oh, we can talk about some things we used to struggle with “back in college” or in our before-Christ days.  We can even talk about acceptable sins such as yelling at our kids or working too much.  These “sins” can be overlooked.    This dear preacher I was listening to was doing exactly what he was telling his congregation NOT to do.  He was pretending to be better than he is.  This is my deepest struggle as well.  We all want to be better than we are.  We all want a formula to guarantee life will work for us, that our marriage will stay together, that our kids will turn out okay, and that we will do enough to be  pleasing to God or at least feel pretty good about ourselves.  Again, I say to myself and to you:  this is NOT the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.  It is not good news at all.

The gospel always has to start with “me.”  Jesus said in Matthew 9:12-13, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.  But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’  For I have not come to call the righteous but sinners.”  The gospel starts with this:  I am a big sinner.  Me.  I am.  Not those people out there.  That only serves to make me feel better about myself.  That only gives me a false sense of self-righteousness, and I do not need more of my own righteousness.  I have plenty of that, and it smells bad to those around me.  I need the righteousness of Jesus.

I am a big sinner, a much bigger one than I realize.  I remember something my graduate teacher, Larry Crabb, told our class.  He told us that we all need to remember that within ourselves we are a whole lot more like Adolph Hitler than we are like Jesus Christ.  And this “big sinner” stuff is not laden with a ton of self-imposed guilt:  “I’m so bad, I’m so bad, I’m so bad.”  No, not at all.  It just is true, that’s all. 

And when we start there, we can embrace the good news.  I am wildly and deeply loved and cared for.  I am sick, and there is a doctor!  I am a sinner and Jesus came for me.  He doesn’t expect me to start being good and stop needing him.  I will always need Jesus, and this pleases him.  This is the way he designed it to be.  I can tell others about my failures to love, the ones that happened this week and this morning.  How I would rather my kids just leave me alone for awhile than to care about them.  That I want my life to work more than I want to know Jesus.  That I struggle deeply with lust, discontentment, depression, despair, anger, whatever it may be.  That Jesus meets me in a real way in the real life I really live, and he has not only forgiven me and cleansed me, but he has also clothed me in his righteousness and goodness.  Now that is good news that I am not ashamed to proclaim.  That is the powerful stuff.

That is what Pentecost means.  Originally to the Old Testament Jews, it was the fiftieth day past the Passover and the Exodus from Egypt.  It was called Shavuot, the Feast of Harvest or Weeks, a celebration of the first fruits of spring and giving thanks to God (Leviticus 23, Exodus 23, 34).  It later became celebrated as day the law was given to Moses on Mt. Sinia, and it is still celebrated to this day. 

On this day, the promised Holy Spirit came in power on the waiting believers in Jerusalem.  The fiftieth day past the death of Jesus.  There were two days in the tomb and the third day he rose.  Then he lived with them for forty days, appearing to many, once appearing to 500 at one time.  It is hard for me to imagine what those days were like, but no doubt full of sheer wonder, exciting joy, and new revelation.  He stayed long enough to convince them he was really alive and to explain to them more of his purposes.  Then on the 40th day, he ascended to heaven, returning to his Father.  After that there were eight days of waiting and then the Spirit came.  In power.  Pentacost.  The fiftieth day.

Today is Pentecost Sunday.  In the Godly Play  curriculum for children (which is too wonderful for words), the one red Sunday on the church calendar, is spoken of as “hot.”  Each time it is mentioned, the teacher touches the red block and moves her hand away quickly, pretending it is hot to the touch.  The day was no doubt “hot.”

Here’s what Acts 2 says: When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place.  Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting.  They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them.  All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them.  Now there were staying in Jerusalem God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven.  When they heard this sound, a crowd came together in bewliderment, because each one heard them speaking in his own language.  Utterly amazed, they asked “Are not all these men who are speaking Galileans?  Then how is it that each of us hears them in his own language?.” . . Amazed and perplexed, they asked one another, “What does this mean?”

We should ask ourselves this same question today.  Pentecost - what does this mean?  What does it mean for my life?  For my church?  A reversal of the Tower of Babel at its finest.  God bringing together his people from all over the world.  The message of Jesus Christ proclaimed in every language.  The Spirit coming to fulfill the promise of Jesus. I will not leave you as orphans.  I will come to you.  (John 16)  Power to be his witnesses.  The Comforter came.  We are not alone. 

We wear red at our little church on Pentecost Sunday.  We remember the day the Spirit came like tongues of fire.  And today I seek to know a bit more of that power, real power for real life.  In my life, my family, my hurts and failures, my calling.  To live out the mission God has given all of us - to be his witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.

(The picture above is a beautiful banner that can be ordered at Pieceful Quilting.)

Having grown up in a protestant church and home, I have spent all of my life oblivious to the Stations of the Cross.  If you are also unfamiliar with this practice, here is what Wikipedia says about the stations:

Stations of the Cross (or Way of the Cross; in Latin, Via Crucis; also called the Via Dolorosa or Way of Sorrows, or simply, The Way) refers to the depiction of the final hours (or Passion) of Jesus , and the devotion commemorating the Passion. The tradition as chapel devotion began with St. Francis of Assissi and extended throughout the Roman Catholic Church in the medieval period. It is less often observed in the Anglican and Lutheran churches. It may be done at any time, but is most commonly done during the Season of Lent, especially on Good Friday and on Friday evenings during Lent.

One of U2’s new song’s on their recently released album No Line on the Horizon got me thinking about stations of the cross.  Here are a few of the lyrics to this penetrating ballad entitled Moment of Surrender:

I was punching in the numbers at the ATM machine
I could see in the reflection
A face staring back at me
At the moment of surrender
Of vision over visibility
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me

I was speeding on the subway
Through the stations of the cross
Every eye looking every other way
Counted down ’til the Pentacost
At the moment of surrender
Of vision over visibility
I did not notice the passers-by
And they did not notice me

So, as my interest had been piqued by my favorite band, and my heart was open during a season of searching during Lent and Easter, I found the service our little Episcopal church held on Good Friday deeply meaningful to me.  It was a chilly night, and we met out in the garden beside the fountain in the church courtyard.  Flaming lamps flickered on and off in the wind as the priest and people read God’s Word and responded, looking at artistic renditions of the different phases of the story of Christ’s Cross.  I held both of my daughters on my lap, wrapped in a warm blanket against the cold, and we wondered in our hearts at the great mystery of such wondrous love.

If you are interested in something enlivening for your own personal prayer life, or something life-giving to read with your children, here is a link to a stations of the cross devotional that can be used personally or with others.  I love how this particular teaching is so gentle in its truth.  I’m going to try to mull over one station each day for the next couple of weeks. 

Love is the person of the resurrection, scooping  up the dust and chanting, “Live!”

Emily Dickenson

The painting above was done by Eugene Burnand in 1898.  I’ll never forget seeing the original on the bottom floor of the Muse Dorsey in Paris, France.  It startled me and thrilled me.  I had never seen it nor heard of it before.  I stood for a long time gazing at it.  The emotion in the eyes of Peter, the hope in the posture of John, the look of having just seen a ghost in both their eyes.  Could it be true?  Dare we hope?  The tomb was empty - we saw it with our own eyes.  The tomb is empty.  Hallelujah.  We rejoice today.

Today is Palm Sunday, the beginning of the week we remember Jesus’ passionate suffering, and I have been thinking more about this special time of year.  I love spring with its flowers, new leaves budding, baby animals being born everywhere, and fresh beginnings of new life where death has reigned supreme for the dreary months of winter.  Yesterday we took the kids to Spring Farm Days at an old farmstead, where we saw baby bunnies, chicks, a piglet, and kid goat, even a docile black sheep being shorn for its summer wardrobe.  Oh, it felt good to see the poor thing lose the big bulky coat of thick, black wool that had served her so well through the bleak chilly months and that now served only to catch hay and aggravate her with its bulky heat.  New starts is one thing that spring means.  Time to shed the old and begin the new.

So often it is human nature to want to cling to the old, to want to remain in our rigid ways and cling to what is familiar.  But springtime and Easter arrive to remind us that this is not the way we are called to journey, that we can muster the courage to change, to risk new directions in love, in relationships, and in calling.  Just a few months ago, my husband and I were talking about a decision whether or not to move out of town a bit and build a house in the country near my parent’s farm.  We have since decided to take this step, but for me, it was a bit of a stretch.  Who enjoys change?  I wanted to dig my heels in and refuse to move.  I’m settled here in my routine.  My kids have neighborhood friends with whom they play regularly.  I have a good buddy next door.  I don’t want to pack up everything and move.  But life calls us to move out of the familiar and have the courage to risk change.  There are new adventures to be had, new friends to make, dreams to awaken.  Easter reminds us of this truth.

Easter is at once shockingly grotesque and sorrowful and yet gloriously hopeful and celebratorial.  Dorothy Sayers, the contemporary of C.S. Lewis, once said,  “To make of his story something that could neither startle, nor shock, nor terrify, nor excite, nor inspire a living soul is to crucify the Son of God afresh.”  This is a time of year to awaken from our slumber and face the central truth of life, that there is a God who lives, there is a God who takes the broken places in the world, in our lives, and grows beauty in those places.  There is a God who loves humanity so tenderly, so powerfully, that he walked alone down the path toward his own brutal death to buy them back from evil, to make them his own people again.

This paradox is especially vibrant during the springtime.  The ground has been hard and unbearing.  The trees have lain naked in the winter winds.  The sun’s light has been scarce.  Weary, bleary days have gone on and on until it seems they will be endless.  Then quietly, almost out of nowhere, spring begins to take us by surprise.  Baby green leaflets burst forth from the trees all around.  Bird chirp their hearts out, announcing that winter is almost over.  Redbuds and dogwoods bloom, subtle in their glory, all the while singing of the truth of God’s glorious reign over death and gloom.

My life has lately been a barren place.  I do not particulary feel joy or fruitfulness, at all.  I grow weary of the monotous calling of my life as a mother of young children, repeating the same tasks over daily.  My heart aches for rest and for fruit to grow from all this planting, all this tending to the garden.  I see a good deal  of sorrow around me, in my own family, and in the situations in the world at large.  I am tempted to lose hope; sometimes I do.  But spring arrives, and Easter with it, to shout to my hurting and weary heart, that God delights in surprising us with flowers that grow from death, with new life jumping out of apparent emptiness and barren places.

Jesus’ followers didn’t get it.  He tried to tell them he was going to die, that there was no other way, but they could not hear him.  They refused to listen.  They had another plan, another dream, that did not include such horrific sadness, loss, and hurt.  And yet, he walked the path his Father gave him to walk.  And their lack of knowing and understanding his plan, did nothing to hinder his fulfilling that plan.  He still triumphantly rode into Jerusalem, faithfully offered the last meal to his friends, agonizingly submitted to his Father’s plan in the garden, and resolutely walked the bloody path to Calvary. 

Holy Week took his friends by surprise.  They did not know the climax would be his death.  How could this be God’s plan for Messiah?  For a time, they were left with grief and utter disillusionment.  Then Sunday morning came to shock all their senses into hope of a whole new plan.  For now, let us walk through this week remembering the events of that precious time.  Maybe we will find new hope for our own journey, maybe spring will awaken new life in the wintry soil of our hearts.  This is my prayer for me and for you.

Yesterday I took my girls to our church to learn a song they will sing with the other children this morning in worship.  The song goes like this:

Ho-ho-ho-hosanna in the hightest!  Ho-ho-ho-hosanna, He’s the brightest!  Ho-ho-ho-hosanna the children sing, Ho-o-sanna to our KING!  Hosanna today, the little children praise, The son of David rides, wave palm branches high!  To Him blessings we shout!  He’s told us all about, God’s love for all men, how he forgives sin.  See Jesus riding near, sing hosanna clear.  Ho-ho-ho-hosanna the children sing, ho-o-sanna to our King!

It is a joyful thing to watch and hear the children sing these words.  It got me thinking about the children who were there on that Sunday about A.D. 37 when Jesus rode the donkey into Jerusalem and the people shouted and waved palm branches in praise of him.  Some of those dear children had met Jesus.  He had laughed with them, probably telling their version of knock knock jokes.  He had held them as babies and toddlers.  He had wiped a teary blubbery face.  He had tickled and chased them.  He had given them a strong embrace and a smile that said, “Get up, you can do it.” 

There was a girl there he had awakened from death, a child he had given back the ability to run.  These children had seen him, heard him, hugged him.  And I bet they were full of sheer joy as he rode into Jerusalem triumphantly on Passover Week.  I can just hear them shouting “Jesus, Jesus, look at me!”  I can just imagine them sqealing with delight that he has come.  I can see them running down the road to get their friends and family to come see.

Do you hear them today?  Are you with them as they shout, “Hosannah! (salvation)?”  He came on a donkey, fulfilling a prophecy from Zechariah 9:9  “Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion!  Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem!  See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt the foal of a donkey.”  And they shouted their hearts out, “Salvation, salvation!!  He is here! He is here!”  My heart is so happy he has come and brought salvation to me.

Again, I’ve been reading Bread and Wine Readings for Lent and Easter, and yesterday I came across a disturbing, yet important bit of work called “The Cross and the Cellar” by Morton T. Kelsey.  Here is a portion:

Each of us has underneath our ordinary personality, which we show to the public, a cellar in which we hide the refuse and rubbish, which we would rather not see ourselves or let others see.  And below that is a deeper hold in which there are dragons and demons, a truly hellish place, full of violence and hatred and viciousness. . . In the cross, this level of our being has thrust itself up out of its deepest underground cellar so that we humans may see what is in all of us and take heed. . . This destructiveness within us can seldom be transformed until we squarely face it in ourselves.  This confrontation often leads us into the pit.

The quote makes me think of the scene from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowhip of the  Ring, in which Gandalf  battles the great underworld demon Balrog for his friends, shouting with authority, “You shall not pass.”  And then he is swept unknowingly into a battle for his life in the underground world of darkness, evil, and fiery demons.  Watch the clip:

The cool thing is knowing that this is what Jesus has done for us.  Though we will continue to fight many battles with demons within and without ourselves in this world, the battle of deepest and fiercest darkness has been fought.  And won.  If it had been up to us, if I were left to face these demons within my heart alone, all would have been despair.  But we have a Savior.  A real one.  And I am so very glad.

I’ve been pondering a few readings from Bread and Wine - Readings for Lent and Easter, and I came across this portion of St. Augustine’s Confessions:

The Maker of man was made man, that the Ruler of the stars might suck at the breast; that the Bread might be hungered; the Fountain, thirst; the Light, sleep; the Way, be wearied by the journey; the Truth, be accused by false witnesses; the Judges of the living and the dead, be judged by a mortal judge; the Chastener, be chastised with whips; the Vine, be crowned with thorns; the Foundation, be hung upon the tree; Strength, be made weak; Health, be wounded; life, die.  To suffer these and suchlike things, undeserved things, that he might free the undeserving, for neither did He deserve any evil, who for our sakes endured so many evils, nor were we deserving of anything good, we who through Him received such good.

This is more of what I love to call the “upside down gospel.”  Life, even the spiritual life, is not as it often seems.  It is through paradox that we find truth.  We fail, and we find that success is a gift for losers who know they need it.  We hate, and forgiveness melts our hearts into love.  We try to be strong until we are so weak that we realize it is his strength we need and that it is only found when ours is gone.   We’re astonished by our wickedness, and even more stunned by the One who knew all along and gave us his goodness. 

Good stuff, this upside down gospel.  It means it is not up to me.  It has already been done.  And to quote my man, Bono, on his new album (Did you think I could pass up an opportunity to do so?),  “It’s not if I believe in love, but if Love believes in me.”  Take some time to think of these things as the season of Jesus’ suffering and death approaches.

(Above picture compliments of St. David’s Church, Houston.)

The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness. . . so what exactly is kindness?  We hear a lot of talk about kindness these days.  I was watching American Idol last week, and one of the contestants and Paula Abdul were discussing how they believe there is a shift toward kindness going on in the universe.  (What?!)  For years now, it has been popular to think about “practicing random acts of kindness.”

And yet there is a kindness in the heart of God that goes beyond wishful thinking and simple efforts to do nice stuff, as great as these ideas might be.  There is a kindness in the heart of God that startles his long lost creation.  We expect him to be distant.  We expect him to be mad.  We expect a lecture of how much better we should be doing and all the vices we need to overcome.  And he comes in kindness.  After all, he is not interested primarily in our behavior.  No, he won’t settle for that surface stuff.  He wants our hearts.  And he wins them with kindness.

It is his kindness that leads us to repentance.

Think of the woman caught in the act of adultery.  The act.  Caught.  Makes your heart pound thinking about it.  (By the way, the religious leaders of Jesus’ day who wanted to stone her were beyond hypocritical - it takes two to tango, but apparently it was okay for the man to be participating in such an act of betrayal because they sure didn’t do anything to him.)  But as this woman was caught, shame pulsating through her body, her accusers dragging her into the public square, Jesus walked onto the scene.  They wanted to know what this “teacher” would say, what he would do.  “Doesn’t the law say the adultress is to be stoned, Jesus, huh?”

He bent and scribbled in the dirt.  Jesus doodled with a stick or his finger in the dirt.  A pause in the drama.   Now, picture this, the crowd was ready for a good show.  It could get boring in those small dusty towns.  No violent movies to entertain.  No internet pornography.  No fast-paced lives.  This was as good as it got.  They were primed and ready to watch, and engage in, a bloody, gory show.  The death of an adulteress.

Then, after the pause, when they were sufficiently filled with quietness, curiosity, and wonder, he stood and spoke.  And what he said surprised everyone.  “Sure, go ahead and stone her, but let the person who has never sinned throw the first stone.”

Kindness.  Stunning kindness.  Kindness to the accusers.  Kindness to the adulteress.

The word in the Greek, chrestotes, means goodness of heart.   It is God’s goodness of heart that leads us to repentance.  And repent they did.  They each slowly, one by one, dropped their stones and walked away.  His goodness of heart melted their angry, proud, self-righteous hearts.  It also saved the life of the woman.  And I bet she loved Jesus a lot after that brief encounter. 

What does it mean to repent anyway?  I’ve heard a plethora of sermons about how repentance means to stop certain behaviors and begin “doing right.”  But I don’t buy it, although that may sometimes be a fruit of repentance.  To repent simply means to come back to God.  Over and over and over.  And that is as simple as it gets.  His kindness, his goodness of heart, makes us want to come back to him.  Even as we are caught in the act of adultery.  Or anger.  Or pride.  Or with our hand in the cookie jar.  We do not have to get cleaned up first.  We can’t.  We just come as we are.  And his kindness, his goodness of heart, his wholesomeness, makes us want to come.  Yearn to come.  Need to come.

And I just bet it will make us want to be kind to others.  This is the fruit of His Spirit within us.