Fragrant Honor

Several months ago, I began writing an article about Luke's account of the feast at the home of Simon, the Pharisee. Jesus was invited. An honor, right? But, a woman enters -- but not just any woman -- Luke tells us she was "a sinner," a prostitute. She pours out expensive perfume; she pours out her tears; she pours forth, from the depths of her heart, contrition and worship. The Pharisee mumbles derisively and Jesus brings to light the deepest contents of the host's heart: self-righteousness, arrogance, judgment, and maybe even a bit of jealousy.

"I entered your house; you gave Me no water for my feet, but she has washed My feet with her tears and wiped them with the hair of her head. You gave Me no kiss, but this woman has not ceased to kiss My feet since the time I came in. You did not anoint My head with oil, but this woman has anointed My feet with fragrant oil." (v. 44-46)

Jesus called the home owner out at his own dinner table! Imagine Simon's face reddening before his guests. The truth is, had any one of those guests acted in such a manner, Simon would have despised them equally. He wasn't interested in honoring others as they were; he was uncomfortable with people and their messes. Oil spilling all over the floor. Tears and weeping, loudly making a scene. And her hair draped over the dusty feet of this stranger? A mess! Just like this filthy woman's entire life! How dare she bring her dirt to his door! Chaos and disorder, sin and shame spilling over his threshold -- and in front of "decent people!"

As I read, I looked around our home. Clean. Neat. Preserved. And nothing is -- or was -- necessarily wrong with that. But, I asked myself how I would feel if such a woman brought her dirt into my home. What would I do if someone "caused a scene" such as this woman did? Would I show her the door, or make excuses to my guests? And who would be at my table? Is my heart's desire to serve and love, or to keep tidy and avoid drama? Does my honor of Jesus come with qualifications?

Within a week, He gave me the opportunity to have all my questions answered. Drama and "messiness" had taken center stage in our lives. A week! An unbelievable situation, that had begun with a simple "this is to inform you" letter months prior, had come live and in person to our front door. Sitting in my neat little office contemplating the scene at Simon's house was a far cry from what the Lord was now asking us to do. And like any self-righteous Pharisee, deep down, I was uncomfortable with damaged people and their messes. I wanted this chance -- more than anything; I knew we had to take responsibility; it was the right thing to do. But oh! the mess it was going to make! Our lives turned upside down, our relationship tested, our physical limitations expanded, our resources exploited -- and forgiveness? The forgiveness we were going to have to give, the forgiveness we were going to have to accept! For, if we were going to do this, we would have to know it was only because we walk in the forgiveness granted by Jesus Christ, and we would have to show that same forgiveness to others.

"I tell you the, the great love she has shown proves that her many sins have been forgiven. But whoever has been forgiven little shows only a little love." -- Luke 7:47

That was almost a year ago, and we have been equipped for this journey each and every day. Equipped with grace, poured out on us; equipped with forgiveness, completely and eternally purchased for us, and daily before us. Our walls have dings and our floors have scratches. Piles of freshly folded clothes topple to the floor as closet space runs out; dirty dishes and garbage are automatically replenished, while gasoline and time are not. But it is this -- our home and lives poured out, our sanitized dreams completely disrupted, our schedules surrendered -- that Jesus demands. It is the mess, invited as we open our hearts and homes to one another, that gives Him the fragrant honor of which He is so deserving.

Going for a Walk

When did my life become such, that I would know this young woman standing before me? That just the very contents of her shopping bag would break my heart? All she owns, stuffed carelessly inside. We are standing outside a drugstore in the middle of the afternoon. Her face is bare, her clothes wanting against the biting wind. Her heart is breaking, as well, for before her stands hope and life -- ambitions from a not so distant past that she is no longer certain were ever hers to achieve. Before her stands the future she so desperately needs; at her feet, her bag, a reflection of the death to which she now chooses to succumb. My companion and I invite her to walk with us and, for a split second, I see acceptance in her eyes. But she declines. She is trapped and our hearts are broken.

My father was born before the start of the Great Depression; my mother shortly after. My father was raised in a conservative rural home in what is known as "Amish Country." My mother remained at home into her 30s. I was taught to go to church and say prayers; I attended a Christian school which required us to wear dresses each day -- "church dresses" on chapel days. Television and radio in our home was strictly monitored until I was in high school. We didn't discuss sex or make jokes about bodily functions. I grew up believing that Christians were always well-dressed, clean, smiling, proper, and helpful. Even among my peers, I was considered a bit sheltered. (Until I grew tired of that.) When I had children of my own, I wanted that same "Ozzie and Harriet" life for them. I wanted to keep dirt and evil at bay; I wanted them surrounded by happiness and goodness. I wanted my children to make good choices and be proper people. I wanted to raise Christians who were well-dressed, clean, smiling, and helpful. I wanted them sheltered.

Fast forward almost thirty years later, to a drugstore and a ravaged young life. She is not mine. I really have "no dog in this fight," as they say. I may or may not ever see her again. But, walking away from her, my stomach begins to churn, my eyes well up, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. I love her and I weep for her because Jesus does. I want her life to be transformed; I want her to know the hope and life I have -- the hope and life of which she dreamed -- because, with Christ, it is possible, no matter where or what she is traveling from.

I know, because I have traveled as well. I have learned that following Christ means following Him to the streets to help those that remain there. Following Christ means getting your "church clothes" dirty cooking for those who are hungry. Following Jesus means being seen with people you never even wanted to know. Following Jesus means weeping for those who are in pain, weeping with those who have not yet found their way to hope and life. Following Jesus is more than what you do or don't watch on television, what you do or don't say before you eat, what you do or don't wear on chapel days. And I am not discounting any of those things, but following Jesus means walking anyone, everyone you meet, straight to the Father's arms.

Truth for the Journey

It's 2 AM, I should be at work. Instead my driveway is blocked by heavy equipment searching for a gas leak. I'm all dressed up with no place to go, as they say. The rest of the house is accustomed to being asleep at this hour -- despite the noise -- so, I find myself in the rare condition of being (dramatic pause) aloooone. No one staring at me, watching for clues as to what she should be doing. No one asking me to reach the crayons, kept at extreme altitudes so her brother doesn't get them. No one racing around in the most adorable, slightly too large, footie pajamas, pinching lint and microscopic specs from the floor, laying his prey on my lap. No one barking to go out, or come in, or go out, or come in. It's quiet, oh so quiet, and I can never be too sure how long it will last.

Scott and I have been called to this, a ministry that doesn't quit. It's 24/7. It's loud. It's invasive. It's emotionally draining. It's physical. Most of it I can't even write about -- and for someone who finds healing through blogging, it's like doing it all without breathing. There are days I slither out of bed, tiptoe through the darkness, creep down the stairs avoiding every crackle in sixty-year old wood, grab my cold coffee from the fridge, let out a little sigh -- and hear those tiny busy feet hit the floor. Or, afternoons when I get the littles hunkered down into their rooms for an hour of "quiet time," I sit down, fire up the old laptop, only to remember I have half a dozen loads of laundry that need attention, and just as many phone calls to make.

But I've been faking it. When this adventure began, I thought, "I can't do this! I'm almost fifty-three years old. I have health problems. I work. God is going to have to do this, because I can not." And He did. Blessing upon blessing poured out. Healing in my body that cannot be explained. Joy and peace in the midst of chaos. But somewhere along the line, I got this crazy idea it was me. Maybe it was the energy I seemed to pull out of thin air. Maybe it was the great ideas I came up with, or the money I was able to save. All those wonderful things I was doing only served to convince me I can do more! My attention was drawn away from this ministry of serving others, away from the grace God was pouring out on us, and toward what "needed" to get done. I plastered on a fake smile. "Oh, this is such a blessing. Oh, this is such a great opportunity." But night after night, as I stood in the shower crying, I whined, "Why isn't anything going right? Why aren't I seeing any results?" Where I had been intentional at the beginning of this pursuit, I now no longer looked for the ways God was intervening in our lives. Where I had originally given every bit of everything to God in the knowledge that I am completely unable, I now put my head down and pushed through the pain or frustration. Where I had viewed this entire journey as God's, I now put my name all over it. And I was faking it.

Last week I came clean. I poured out my heart to God first, then my husband, then my friends in our Bible study. I said, "This is hard." I said, "I don't always want to be in this place." I said, "I have made this all about me." Suddenly, my life was flooded with truth. God said, "It's meant to be hard for you, but I've got this." My husband said, "This isn't what I had planned either, but we're in it together." My friends said, "We know what you mean; we've been there before." Truth. And blessing, and healing, and joy and peace.

Everything this journey was about from the beginning.

On My Heart

I want to explain some things to you. Maybe you've thought some of these things. Maybe some of them are the reason you reject Jesus today. But, I hope this clears some things up for you.

I went to a Christian school. I went to summer camp at a Christian retreat center. I was raised in a large church and had many opportunities to do Christian youth-type things: retreats, rallies, lock-ins, and so forth. Time and time again I heard the wonderful testimonies of people who had not only been saved from hell but, at one point, had lived like it. Former drug addicts and rock stars. My boring, Christian-home existence seemed so unaffected by the Gospel. We always did the right thing. We always went to church. We always prayed at meals. What could the Gospel do for me that I wasn't already doing?

So, I continued to memorize the words of the Bible. I continued to log my attendance and close my eyes during prayer. Until I didn't. You see, as I got older and became more independent, the trappings of religion became far less appealing. Instead of being surrounded by people who encouraged that sort of thing, I was now asked if I'd like to pick up an extra shift on Sunday morning, or I'd like to go out on Saturday night. No one cared if I could recite entire books of the Bible and no one cared if I prayed at all, much less peeked or passed notes during the doxology. Religion was empty and ineffective, and lasted only as long as I was willing to keep it up.

By the time I fully surrendered, my life had, at times, resembled the lives of those who I'd met so many years before, but none of it was as glamorous as I'd thought it sounded when I'd been sitting in the cheap seats. There was pain and regret; there were lasting consequences; there were irreversible decisions; there was disappointment and embarrassment. Religion and arrogance had led me to a place I'd always thought I wanted to be; mercy and grace led me to a place I thought I never wanted to be.

The longer I'd sailed through life foundationless and misdirected, the more I needed the Gospel; but not just the words I had dutifully put to memory, not the outward expressions of obedience or the pretense of godliness. I needed the transformation experienced by those whose testimonies I had so admired. I needed to lay down the "Gospel According to Me" and give everything over to The Way, the Truth and the Life -- Jesus. And what I came to know was that I'd always needed that. In the raucous joy of summer camp or the quiet of all school chapels; in the regularity of saying grace or the tedium of fifth-grade concordance studies, I needed transformation. I didn't have to live some wild life of debauchery to need Jesus, and I couldn't find restoration and sanctification in religious behavior. I needed Him all along and could only find Him in what He had done.

So, if you're struggling with religion, if you're thinking God can't use your quiet little Christian life, I urge you to give it all over to Him. He will take your arrogance and your ennui, and do something absolutely amazing. Without the religion. Without the regret.