Brutal Blessing

"Are those waterproof?"

Looking down at my Wellies and anticipating where she was going with this, I cautiously drawled out, Ye-e-e-s-s-s.

"Would you be willing to go in and get our water sample for us?"

I knew it. I also knew the creek I would be attempting to "go in." Having grown up in the area, not only did I know it was properly pronounced "crick," but I knew it went from three or four tranquil little inches to thirteen or fourteen inches of boot-swallowing muck when you least expected it. I reluctantly took the necessary equipment and headed down to the water's edge.

Gingerly I navigated my way through the brush so as not to incur the wrath of thorns and bramble, all the while trying to manage the steps of my ten-year old partner. Stop! Stay right there, I'd command. My word would be immediately obeyed, but as I moved on, so would he. Like trying to separate myself from my shadow. As I stepped forward onto the sandy bank, my other foot remained stuck --listening better, apparently, than my sidekick. I stumbled and immediately began falling toward the water. To stop my fall, I threw my arm behind me and grabbed at the first branches I could reach, branches loaded with small briars. Let me just say, I have been scratched by nature, I have been pricked by nature, but until you have had nature sink its teeth into your skin for all it is worth, you know nothing. Tiny spikes grabbed at my shirt and stuck in my sleeves. My foot remained lodged precisely where it had been. My hair had woven itself into the tangle of brush above me. And thorns tore into the flesh of my hand. The blood appeared as instantaneously as the pain, dripping into the creek around me. So much for an accurate water sample. As my son let out a yelp, I looked to be sure no one had seen the assault. Then I noticed my hand. The cuts were jagged and deep, thorns remained in my skin, and the blood flowed, bright and warm. Those thorns were so tiny, I thought. Nothing, really. But they were savage and unforgiving in their injury. My next thoughts turned toward the cross. 

Creek clean-up is something I enjoy doing every year. A local group sends out a solicitation for volunteers that, to me, signals the arrival of Spring. I enjoy traipsing through the woods and spotting wildflowers just beginning to bloom, finding evidence of animal activity. I enjoy it even more when the day is cooler and rainy --April showers assure the flowers of May will be glorious! It's like working with the Creator to prepare His landscape for the celebration of Resurrection. To find in it, on this occasion, such a poignant lesson of the agony of the cross, the precursor to His victory over death, was a generous gift. 

I really was stunned by the brutality of nature: tiny thorns humanity was commanded to subdue, brittle twigs I could crush underfoot, yet they did so much damage and caused so much pain. Jesus endured the cross, despising the shame. Everyone present saw the atrocity before them. On His head was placed a crown of thorns; thorns the result of mankind's disobedience; thorns that tore into His flesh and drew blood in crimson rivulets down His face. Merciless. Humiliating. Isolating. The accursed and ultimate penalty, reserved for one who takes a life, served by the Giver of life. His blood poured out for me.

I did manage to submit a water sample that day --a little farther upstream and with no further injury. But the living lesson I received for myself (and share with you) will, I pray, remain with me for a long time.

  

Midweek: There Are No Super Christians (2020)

Have you ever stood in the presence of another Christian and felt inadequate? I'm talking about a full-on brother (or sister) on a pedestal moment. I'll never be as spiritual as he is. We all might be more alike than you'd imagine. This reprint from November 2020 explains.

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"My name is Julius and I am your twin brother."

A smile begins to spread across Danny DeVito's face. "Oh, obviously! The moment I sat down I thought I was lookin' into a mirra."

The exchange takes place between Vincent, played by DeVito and his "not identical" (as Julius informs him) twin brother, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Julius' clarification, as you can imagine, is totally unnecessary. The differences between them are clearer than crystal. However, so are the similarities. As the movie plays out, we find their mannerisms are identical, the things they really want in life are identical, despite their more overt dissimilarities.

I have a friend who thinks I am some sort of a "super Christian." "You are so much further along than I a--" No, no I am not. "But you are so strong in the Lo--" No, no I am not. It bothers me, it really does. I cling to Christ because I vacillate. I seek the Lord because I am short-sighted. I move in His strength because I am weak. I am not super spiritual. The truth is, I am tethered to the Perfect, the Infinite, the Sovereign, the Eternal. He has promised to never leave me or forsake me; He has promised to help me, and He calls me "friend." It is when I ignore my relationship with Jesus and try to go it alone, you can see the real "me," the natural me.

I tell my friend all the time, "You have no idea how much alike we are." I say, "We are like twins separated at birth." I protest, "You have no idea what I am without Jesus!" I don't think I'm being taken seriously. The truth is, though, who I am today, the strong confidence I have that God is in control and working for my good, comes from years of walking with the Lord, hours and hours in the Scriptures, struggle after struggle and pain after pain. I was once in my friend's shoes. I could not, would not see how the misery would end. I wanted one day -- just one day in God's favor. "Couldn't He like me for just one day?" I whined to a sister in the Lord. She looked at me with such care in her eyes, "He does like you. In fact, He loves you," she said. "Trust Him and He will take you through it." Then, she said the words I have repeated to my friend so many times: "Believe me." She knew. She knew, because what I saw in her, that strength, the confidence and steadfastness, those things that, to me, made her some sort of "Super Christian," came from taking the hand of Jesus and holding on for dear life. 

In God's wisdom, His Scriptures reveal to us the failures, flaws and foibles of "Bible heroes." Noah drank, Abraham lied, Peter was a hothead and a coward, Paul wasn't one to give second chances. "Champions" of the faith, and yet, they failed. Sixteen second snapshots of any of our lives may reveal we are more alike than different. It's not hypocrisy; it's simple truth. In and of ourselves we are nothing but human. When we forget to Whom we belong, when we do things in our own strength, we can never be mistaken for any type of hero. 

There are no Super Christians. They just don't exist. From the time we say, "I do," we are engaged in battle. We are praying and reading and meditating and rejoicing and weeping our way through eternity. All of us. There may be days when Jesus shares with us His victory. There will probably be many more days, at least in this world, where we get a raw taste of defeat. But "be of good cheer!" Jesus has overcome the world. He is the superhero. He is just gracious enough to invite those of us made in His image along for the journey!

Obey to Thrive!

Years ago, I was invited to spend some time at a friend's home. Though I loved her deeply, she and I had some very different ideas about things like housekeeping and child rearing and meal preparation and, well, just about everything. When the topic of getting together came up, I would always encourage her to come to my place. I would plan a menu that seemed to suit us both, and I'd brace for impact, as her parenting was a bit more permissive than mine. I planned sleeping arrangements ahead of time, and tried to make her aware of anything in our schedules which might cause her inconvenience. I waited up until she and her children arrived --usually much later than the scheduled arrival time --and assisted them in settling in. 

The time came, however, when she insisted she demonstrate hospitality toward me. I reluctantly accepted the invitation. What I anticipated would be a short visit, however, was extended, and truthfully, felt extended. Her family slept late; we were early risers. Tip-toeing around, trying to entertain children and find the supplies necessary to feed them (and make myself a bowl of coffee) was a daily issue. My quiet time with Jesus was not only logistically impossible, but I felt a very unwelcoming spirit in the house. When the day began, it was spent in perpetual activity as if I wasn't there. Errands were run, television shows were watched, arguments were had. There was nothing to entertain or engage; there were no special trips to the local park or museum. Meals were not eaten as a group; everyone ate as they saw fit, and if we ordered out, it was "Dutch." My mind went back to childhood, to those occasions where the adults would talk and children were expected to be seen, not heard. I felt as if I'd been invited merely to be held captive, and I longed for home.

I was reading Jeremiah 29 the other morning. Judah was overcome by Babylon, and many of the people had been taken captive. They had been marched from their homeland some four hundred miles to a heathen, foreign land. Their exile was judgment from God whom they had forsaken. Nevertheless, He mercifully commissioned Jeremiah to exhort the people to obey Him.

Jeremiah 29:5-7 says:

Build houses and dwell in them; plant gardens and eat their fruit. Take wives and beget sons and daughters; and take wives for your sons and give your daughters to husbands, so that they may bear sons and daughters—that you may be increased there, and not diminished. And seek the peace of the city where I have caused you to be carried away captive, and pray to the Lord for it; for in its peace you will have peace. 

Their captivity would last for a time --seventy years, God said --but in that time, they were not to rebel or give up. They were to live! They were to multiply and produce fruit. They were to live as God's people in a foreign land, in plain view of its people. Their presence would be a blessing to the heathen citizens of Babylon for God's glory. Their prayers for this foreign power would demonstrate God's power --power given to His people to live in joy and fullness of joy, despite the environment. Their prayers would allow the people of Babylon to experience God's kindness, meant to lead to repentance. Their prayers would bless the country and hold its people accountable: they could not claim they'd never seen God nor deny His existence. Their prayers would transform their hearts to hearts full of love for their enemies and love for the God who was still with them. Don't struggle to survive; obey to thrive! This was their time to evangelize, to shine the light of God's love in a dark world.

My mind went back to that visit. Given the opportunity again, would I be able to do that visit in a much better, much more blessed way today? Would I choose to obey to thrive? Would I sing praise songs in the shower and as I stood helping with dishes? As I tip-toed around each morning, would I seek to cover every inch of the floor in prayer? As I sat on the sofa, balancing my dinner plate on my knees, would I give thanks for the way God provided for my friend and her family? Could I take my mind off my misery long enough to do what I'm told; to build, dwell, plant, and savor; to establish relationship, edify and multiply the blessing in my friend's life for generations; to receive the peace God has for me by seeking peace in this foreign land. 

Isn't that the opportunity we are given each and every day until we are summoned home?