The Bible says a lot about fools. I've been a fool. I know a few. But just for some interesting reading, I thought I'd post some of these verses.
Proverbs 26:6-12 (ESV)
Whoever sends a message by the hand of a fool
cuts off his own feet and drinks violence.
Like a lame man’s legs, which hang useless,
is a proverb in the mouth of fools.
Like one who binds the stone in the sling
is one who gives honor to a fool. (I'm picturing the sling coming right back around and pegging the user right in the face -- or worse!)
Like a thorn that goes up into the hand of a drunkard
is a proverb in the mouth of fools.
Like an archer who wounds everyone
is one who hires a passing fool or drunkard.
Like a dog that returns to his vomit
is a fool who repeats his folly. (As a dog owner, former drunk and hardhead, this one's a personal fave.)
Do you see a man who is wise in his own eyes?
There is more hope for a fool than for him.
Enjoy!
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Mirror, Mirror on the Wall
I spoke with someone a few weeks
back. Someone who is so thoroughly unhappy with her life, she is willing to
destroy the lives of those around her. She begrudges even her own family the
smallest bit of comfort and, with intent and calculation will poison the well
of anyone else she suspects of being satisfied. It truly is sad. I began
praying for this woman even more than I’d been praying before. I began asking
God for a way to love her as He does.
“God, I can’t imagine being as small
and spiteful as she has been. I can’t imagine deeply hurting those I love
because of my own insecurities, as she has. Therefore, Father, I can’t begin to
relate; I can’t begin to understand her thoughts. And while I can pray for her,
I am having a very hard time loving her. Please help me.”
Yeah, I know just a little self-righteous, but I really could not see myself as being anything like that, and I genuinely wanted to find some common ground so I could pray as effectively as possible, empathize with her and get a feel for how I should pray.
Heading off to a long Saturday
morning at work, I quickly scoured my shelves for some reading material. I came
across a workbook I’d picked up, “Who Calls Me Beautiful?” It’s Regina
Franklin’s path to “Finding our true image in God.”
Five hours later…
Chapter One – “List three areas of
physical beauty – according to the world’s standard – that you feel you lack.”
Done.
Then – “Identify one of your deep
spiritual longings.”
Um…um…
“Really,” I thought to
myself. “You can’t think of one?”
Now, I know I have deep spiritual longings;
I know I can name them, but I was distracted by that fact my physical
imperfections had been right there, front and center, but the
spiritual…? I suddenly realized just how much I am like "her."
How often do I take things personally and lashed out, because I am not OK with seeing that quality in myself? How much time have I spent critiquing my legs instead of wearing that dress that Scott loves? Is my relationship with God the priority that it should be, or am I too busy worrying about superficial things? Have pettiness and jealousy caused me to open my mouth, ruining a perfect moment with my husband? Wasn't it just a few weeks ago, I sat in church obsessing over the run in my stocking? When a friend wanted to spend some time discussing the sermon later...? How often do I bow my head in prayer, only to find minutes later I'm thinking about what I should have said at the last fund raiser? or worse, what that nut job from HR did say? Aren't I just as bitter and frustrated as "she" is when I set off to find happiness in anything without Jesus? When I come up empty, have I ever rained on anyone else's parade to salve my wounds?
"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness..." -- Matthew 6:33
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Remember...
Symbols of 9/11...
The towers burning.
Firefighters raising a flag on the rubble of Ground Zero.
A smouldering field in western PA.
The crumbling walls of our country's bastion of defense, The Pentagon.
America's flag.
We look to these symbols to remember, to mourn and to summon up the strength to continue. And while these memorials can bring comfort to our hearts, it is Jesus who thoroughly comforts the soul.
John 4:14 (ESV)
The towers burning.
Firefighters raising a flag on the rubble of Ground Zero.
A smouldering field in western PA.
The crumbling walls of our country's bastion of defense, The Pentagon.
America's flag.
We look to these symbols to remember, to mourn and to summon up the strength to continue. And while these memorials can bring comfort to our hearts, it is Jesus who thoroughly comforts the soul.
John 4:14 (ESV)
"...but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life."
Today, as we remember those who gave their lives in service, those who demostrated courage with their very last breaths, those who left us far too soon, those who were much loved fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, and even those so corrupted by the Evil One they would give their lives in service to him, we look to Jesus, the author and finisher of faith, who endured suffering, was and is the object of scorn, promises to shepherd and abide with us in our joy as well as our pain, and now sits at His Father's right hand, awaiting the homecoming of those who love Him.
Today, as we remember those who gave their lives in service, those who demostrated courage with their very last breaths, those who left us far too soon, those who were much loved fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, and even those so corrupted by the Evil One they would give their lives in service to him, we look to Jesus, the author and finisher of faith, who endured suffering, was and is the object of scorn, promises to shepherd and abide with us in our joy as well as our pain, and now sits at His Father's right hand, awaiting the homecoming of those who love Him.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
A 9/11 Story
Christmas morning. 1974. The house is numb with the overwhelming melancholy that crashed the party just as the last gift was opened. My mother has initiated a slow reawakening, stirring the air with the smells of a holiday meal and the anticipation of friends and family to arrive. I am huddled in a corner reading a brand new Nancy Drew. I put my cheek against the cool, crisp pages and breathe in the pungent aroma of unspoiled type.
As long as I can remember I have been a bibliophile. In fifth grade I became so engrossed in "Harriet the Spy," I wanted to be her. I began taking notes on the activities of my neighbors. Scribbling the least interesting tidbits on an old 5 and dime store tablet, in hopes that sooner or later the pieces of my puzzle would tumble into place, revealing some sinister wave of crime on our sleepy little street. The result was Mrs. Wooster, our school principal, calling me to her desk to discuss my punishment. It seems my neighbor and classmate, Larry Nell had gotten a bit tired of my snooping, and when he found one of my little observances in a library book I'd recently returned, the die was cast. This particular missive read, "Mrs. Wooster gets on my nerves." Mea culpa.
In all my years of gorging myself on book after book, it wasn't until adulthood, as a homeschooler in fact, that I began reading some of the best literature of my life. "Cry, the Beloved Country." "How Green Was My Valley." "To Kill a Mockingbird." "Shepherd of the Hills." And most recently, "Uncle Tom's Cabin." When a good story gently unfolds before your eyes... When experience and symbolism are so carefully and consistently woven throughout... When the universality of the tale is so evident... That is literature that speaks to more than the eyes or ears of the reader. That kind of literature speaks to the heart, the heritage, the essence of humanity. To be lost in the story of man's struggle to rise above, to follow the rolling hills and muddy waters of ordinary existence straight to the feet of Justice herself, to see victory as attainable for all mankind -- that is what draws me to a good book. It is with such conviction that I pause to examine the "story" of 9/11.
A solid week of biographical and autobiographical accounts. Documentary after documentary on the "rebuilding." Endless speculation over 2001, and prognostication and suspicion over the possibility of attacks in 2011. But where are we as a nation? Are we better off than we were ten years ago? Have the stories of heroism and loss made any difference at all? As the tragedy of 9/11 continues to play before our eyes, does it speak to our hearts of justice, courage, kinship or America's struggle for God's blessing? Ten years ago, stadiums full of U.S. citizens tearfully sang "God Bless America." Did we mean it? Do we care for God's blessing? Do we even recognize the existence of God any more today than we did when we watched thousands of our neighbors perish in what some have said was a wake-up call to our backslidden country? What have we, as a people done with the story that was written that clear blue September day?
The flags are in ribbons, or lie somewhere underneath the outdoor Christmas lights. The simple kindnesses we witnessed for so many days and weeks after the attacks, have been replaced by rage at our airports. The heads that were bowed in deep reverence for the pointless loss of life and a desire to find a Foundation on which to rise again, can't rise above the pillow on Sunday morning. Eyes that shed tear after tear for those lost and those who had lost, now watch hour after hour of ego maniacal athletes and celebrities as they live and die in excess. Multi-colored hands that were joined across "fruited plains," bi-partisan lines and societal classes, no longer reach out to raise up another, but crash down in frustration at the negotiating table, or wield the gun that generates yet another statistic in gang related news. Where is Justice? Where is Equality and Fraternity? What has been our heritage, or even worse...
What will be our legacy?
As long as I can remember I have been a bibliophile. In fifth grade I became so engrossed in "Harriet the Spy," I wanted to be her. I began taking notes on the activities of my neighbors. Scribbling the least interesting tidbits on an old 5 and dime store tablet, in hopes that sooner or later the pieces of my puzzle would tumble into place, revealing some sinister wave of crime on our sleepy little street. The result was Mrs. Wooster, our school principal, calling me to her desk to discuss my punishment. It seems my neighbor and classmate, Larry Nell had gotten a bit tired of my snooping, and when he found one of my little observances in a library book I'd recently returned, the die was cast. This particular missive read, "Mrs. Wooster gets on my nerves." Mea culpa.
In all my years of gorging myself on book after book, it wasn't until adulthood, as a homeschooler in fact, that I began reading some of the best literature of my life. "Cry, the Beloved Country." "How Green Was My Valley." "To Kill a Mockingbird." "Shepherd of the Hills." And most recently, "Uncle Tom's Cabin." When a good story gently unfolds before your eyes... When experience and symbolism are so carefully and consistently woven throughout... When the universality of the tale is so evident... That is literature that speaks to more than the eyes or ears of the reader. That kind of literature speaks to the heart, the heritage, the essence of humanity. To be lost in the story of man's struggle to rise above, to follow the rolling hills and muddy waters of ordinary existence straight to the feet of Justice herself, to see victory as attainable for all mankind -- that is what draws me to a good book. It is with such conviction that I pause to examine the "story" of 9/11.
A solid week of biographical and autobiographical accounts. Documentary after documentary on the "rebuilding." Endless speculation over 2001, and prognostication and suspicion over the possibility of attacks in 2011. But where are we as a nation? Are we better off than we were ten years ago? Have the stories of heroism and loss made any difference at all? As the tragedy of 9/11 continues to play before our eyes, does it speak to our hearts of justice, courage, kinship or America's struggle for God's blessing? Ten years ago, stadiums full of U.S. citizens tearfully sang "God Bless America." Did we mean it? Do we care for God's blessing? Do we even recognize the existence of God any more today than we did when we watched thousands of our neighbors perish in what some have said was a wake-up call to our backslidden country? What have we, as a people done with the story that was written that clear blue September day?
The flags are in ribbons, or lie somewhere underneath the outdoor Christmas lights. The simple kindnesses we witnessed for so many days and weeks after the attacks, have been replaced by rage at our airports. The heads that were bowed in deep reverence for the pointless loss of life and a desire to find a Foundation on which to rise again, can't rise above the pillow on Sunday morning. Eyes that shed tear after tear for those lost and those who had lost, now watch hour after hour of ego maniacal athletes and celebrities as they live and die in excess. Multi-colored hands that were joined across "fruited plains," bi-partisan lines and societal classes, no longer reach out to raise up another, but crash down in frustration at the negotiating table, or wield the gun that generates yet another statistic in gang related news. Where is Justice? Where is Equality and Fraternity? What has been our heritage, or even worse...
What will be our legacy?
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