Dressed in His Righteousness Alone

When my mother left our home to enter a nursing facility, I was given the option of using their laundry service or continuing to do her laundry myself. Knowing I would be to see her frequently, I said I would continue to do her laundry. Knowing items often get lost, even with the best laundry services, I said I would continue to do her laundry. Knowing how much I was going to miss getting her ready for the day and cooking her meals, I said I would continue to do her laundry. There is something about doing the laundry of our loved ones that is intrinsically intimate. Sure, most days it can seem like just another household chore, but when the person is gone, we realize just how special clothing can be. Clothing is personal. It expresses our style, occupation, and budget. It is worn by us and smells like us --even after multiple washings. And the only thing harder than finding items of clothing in the laundry after a person is gone, is not finding them anymore.

I have to wonder about the clothing God made for Adam and Eve after their futile attempts to cover their nakedness. "Tunics of skin", the NKJV calls them. Did they eventually wear out? Did Eve study them so she might craft replacements as well as her Father fashioned the originals? When baby Cain entered the world, did she immediately send Adam to slay rabbits for the layette? In terms of modesty, how much or how little was revealed? Did they feel ownership of their clothing the way we do? That last question there --that's the one. Did they feel ownership of their clothing as we do?

Scripture spends quite a bit of time talking about clothing. Do you remember Joseph's coat of many colors given him by his father as a symbol of favor? (Genesis 37:3, 4) Talk about your bad choices:

Now Israel loved Joseph more than all his children, because he was the son of his old age. Also he made him a tunic of many colors. But when his brothers saw that their father loved him more than all his brothers, they hated him and could not speak peaceably to him.

When Joseph's brothers finally decided to take their revenge, they opted for mercy for their younger brother, but showed none toward their father (Genesis 37:31-34):

So they took Joseph’s tunic, killed a kid of the goats, and dipped the tunic in the blood. Then they sent the tunic of many colors, and they brought it to their father and said, “We have found this. Do you know whether it is your son’s tunic or not?”

And he recognized it and said, “It is my son’s tunic. A wild beast has devoured him. Without doubt Joseph is torn to pieces.” Then Jacob tore his clothes, put sackcloth on his waist, and mourned for his son many days.

I can imagine Jacob clutching the tunic in both fists, holding it to his face, weeping and breathing deeply the scent of his favorite boy. Did he return time and time again to that bloody coat, drawing his breath and allowing the images of his son to flood his mind?

And look at the description of John the Baptist's attire:

Now John himself was clothed in camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist; (Matthew 3:4)

Rugged, utilitarian --sort of like John the Baptist himself. His words to the people were simple and direct. Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand! He took a no-nonsense approach to the religious elite in his day, calling them a brood of vipers.

Clothing is personal. Even the most Puritanical tend to feel some sort of ownership, as though clothing were a second skin to us. Skin that became necessary because of sin. It should be a curse to us, right? But even Jesus took ownership of His garments. In Matthew 9:20-22, a woman with an issue of blood had faith she would be healed if only she could touch the hem of Jesus' garment. The hem! She was correct.

But Jesus said, “Somebody touched Me, for I perceived power going out from Me.”

(Luke 8:46) 

"I perceived power going out from Me," yet she only touched His hem (Luke 8:44). That power which flowed from the Messiah, through the hem of His coat, and to a broken but believing woman, did what nothing or no one else could do. It made her whole. And by God's grace, clothing is for us a picture, a picture of the righteousness in which the saints stand clothed through Jesus Christ, and have been made whole. It is personal. We should feel ownership of that righteousness as we yield to the Holy Spirit and immerse ourselves more deeply into God's Word day after day. We should feel it, not as though it were a second skin to us, but a first; our most lovely and our most essential. If you are not clothed with the righteousness of Christ today, I urge you to get a new wardrobe. An everlasting and holy wardrobe. One that, even when you are gone and your favorite shirt is no longer found in the hamper, those who long to breathe in more than memories can be assured you are now whole. 

Midweek: A Cinderella Story (2014)

This month it was seventeen years since my prince and I said our I dos. Not much longer before that I accepted the I do of the Prince and offered my own. Seventeen years is certainly not a record --in either case; but I love hearing of those special, almost lifelong celebrations, especially when the news is accompanied by images of two frail clasped hands in an epic love story, or a litany of souls won for the Kingdom of God. I know it was my reluctance to be made one with the Prince of Peace that caused me to remain in ashes, but praise Him for His mercy and grace, His forbearance and power that has allowed me to celebrate my life with the earthborn prince he gave me!

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Everybody loves a good story. I am no different. I love a good story...and shoes. I love shoes and good stories. Now you combine those two elements, and you've got yourself quite a good thing. In fact, it's been done before -- maybe once or twice -- and quite successfully in the form of my favorite story, Cinderella.

I don't think I'm alone when I say, as a little girl I dreamed of my prince, riding up to take me -- unworthy, common, hidden by ashes -- for his bride. But there is irony here, an irony that the story of Cinderella doesn't capture. Most little girls -- unworthy, common, and hidden away beneath the ashes -- reject at least one prince, and choose at least one troll. I was no different. It wasn't until I felt completely worthless, believed myself to be beneath common, and had made myself quite comfortable among the ashes, that a prince came along who accepted me as I was, but loved me far too much to leave me there.

When I met him, he told me right from the door, "If you're sick of the way you've been living, and you want to make some real changes, then stick with me, but if you want me to treat you the same way you've allowed yourself to be treated your entire life, find someone else." What?! He may have been a prince, but this was a guy who had chased me for months; this was a guy who'd been told "No" more times than a six year-old at Toys 'R Us! And he thinks he's just gonna walk away like that? Yep. And he would have, too, if I hadn't straightened my tail out and made a commitment to be better to myself -- for him.

As parents, one of the greatest disappointments is watching your child do something that is going to hurt them. So many times, as I have corrected my children, their first instinct is to apologize, and mine is to say, "I'm not telling you this because you've hurt me, but because I know how badly this will hurt you." My prince loves me like that. He would have never been able to stand by and watch me self-destruct, and there is absolutely no way he could have helped me in it.

But, you see, my prince is merely a picture of another Prince; the Prince who had been there my whole life, slowly, gently, and despite my greatest resistance, coaxing me out of the ashes and into His arms. But I'd always run. I was sure I wasn't good enough -- and I wasn't, but The Prince accepted me exactly the way I was.

I just never saw it that way.

Being worthy, or being uncommon, or even being clean was where He was dying -- literally -- to take me, not where I needed to be. He wanted to walk me through it, to commit to being better to myself -- for Him.

I just didn't see it that way.

Besides, there were a lot of trolls to go around. And at least a troll was just as filthy and contemptible as I was -- if you stay at the bottom, you never have far to fall. And a troll would never expect me to be anything but unworthy, common, and hidden in ashes -- no grief and disappointment in that. And a troll would always be a troll -- no nasty surprises.

No good ones, either.

Not every day with my prince, or my Prince, is easy, and not everything works out the way I have planned. But whatever befalls, befalls us. And whatever burdens we have, we share. And the good stuff, we enjoy together, happily, and ever after.

Brick by Brick

One of my favorite nursery stories was The Three Little Pigs. I have read kinder, gentler versions, but the one I recall from childhood begins with a mother pig too poor to take care of all her piglets. She sent the oldest three out to build lives for themselves. As the story goes, the first pig was too impulsive and lazy --the Party Pig --to take the time and effort to build something that would last: he built out of straw. The second was a little less reckless but also unwilling to build with eternity in mind. The third, of course, was the oldest child --He must have been! --he was detail oriented, probably controlling, and a little neurotic: he built out of brick to keep the wolf at bay. To his credit, however, when the abodes of his siblings failed miserably against the gale force winds of the Big Bad Wolf's heave, he took them in and sheltered them against their mutual enemy, despite what might have been a very valuable life (or death) lesson.

For a long time, I saw myself in the third pig. Wise, responsible, dutiful, industrious. (I didn't side with him in his decision to show mercy to his lazy siblings, but all-in-all, I thought he was the better of the three. Not like I was full of myself or anything, in those days.) The other day, I realized I was more like him than I thought, but this time, in a different way. You see, he and his siblings built their homes uniquely because, whether you believe it had anything to do with character or not, they were individuals. Maybe Pig #1 was happy with just enough. I'll build my house of straw --enough to keep me warm and dry without investing too much money or taking time from my relationships. Maybe Pig #2 was simply that middle-of-the-road guy, the guy that buys a reasonably comfortable, reliable car but has no need to spend extra on luxury.  And maybe the third pig, the pig like me, was such an over-achiever, was so impersonal with regard to his relationships, was so terrified of danger or threat of danger, he built to ensure nothing would get in or out.

I was a stronghold builder. I built according to the lessons taught me in childhood. What was not my fault --injury sustained --became clearly my fault when I began building monuments to it. Another brick here, another brick there. So high you can't get over it; so low you can't get under it; so wide you can't get around it! The problem with strongholds is they keep everything out --the evil and the love of God, the lie and the Truth. I relied on my own understanding to determine who could and could not gain access to my refuge. I allowed squealing, desperate pigs into my stronghold. The problem was there was nothing desperate in those squeals, only deceit, the deceit of the Adversary. The Big Bad Wolf played cruel tricks on me, and because my strongholds were built well enough to keep out the wisdom and discernment granted by the Holy Spirit, I was ignorant. The walls I built for protection were my greatest undoing.

But as with our fairytale, my story doesn't end there. My story begins and ends with the iron-willed, mountain-moving grace of God. Praise God, for He is merciful! He is my loving Creator and sovereign over all things! He knew the way in. In His kindness and His savage grace, He protected me until such a time, made His way in, brick by brick, moving with expert precision, only as quickly as my condition would allow, and He dismantled those strongholds (He is dismantling still), so that I might bring Him glory, serve Him more effectively, and know the joy of fellowship with others. 

I'd like to just leave you with a few verses today. If you are living behind, on top of, or under a stronghold today, I pray God in His grace will escort these truths in as He begins to dismantle anger, jealousy, grief, despair, pride, fear, or any other thing raised against the knowledge of Him, brick by brick. 

Unless the Lord builds the house,

They labor in vain who build it;

Unless the Lord guards the city,

The watchman stays awake in vain. 

(Psalm 127:1)

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,

And lean not on your own understanding;

In all your ways acknowledge Him,

And He shall direct your paths.

(Proverbs 3:5,6)

For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds, casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ,

(2 Corinthians 10:4, 5)

How Do You Live?

As a society, we are pathetically soft. Even the "most durable" of us are pretty pampered. We have our can't-do-without shampoo and our climate-controlled office buildings. We lose our minds when a detour forces us to add minutes to a commute. We want to know every detail and ensure they are written in stone before we embark on vacation. We have calendars and alarms to keep our days comfortably aligned, and we hide the dirty little secret of our overflow in storage units conveniently located in every town. 

In Mark 6:7-11a, Jesus sends His disciples out with very limited instructions and few customary resources. 

And He called the twelve to Himself, and began to send them out two by two, and gave them power over unclean spirits. He commanded them to take nothing for the journey except a staff—no bag, no bread, no copper in their money belts— but to wear sandals, and not to put on two tunics. Also He said to them, “In whatever place you enter a house, stay there till you depart from that place. And whoever will not receive you nor hear you, when you depart from there, shake off the dust under your feet as a testimony against them."

We're not told if Jesus told them how far to go or how long to stay. It appears He did not. And we are not told how far or how long they actually did go. The fact they were told to take a walking stick, seems to indicate it wasn't a quick trip to the next town over and there could very likely be a predator or two they'd have to knock over the head. No GPS, no debit card, no transit pass, not even a hotel reservation. Mark simply tells us, one day Jesus whistled or waved for His disciples to come to Him and then sent them out. Maybe they came to Him thinking it was time for group prayer and some lunch. Nevertheless, they complied with Jesus' commission and based on Mark's description of their return (verse 30), they had great success. 

I started to wonder if I would be willing to take that trip. How many of us wouldn't ask if there would be WIFI or if we could postpone the trip until our children are back in school? Would friends gather for some sort of intervention to keep us from doing something so impulsive, so reckless? Then I imagined coming face to face with John the Baptist, who set up his ministry in the wilderness with nothing more than one simple camel skin suit and a diet of honey and grasshoppers. Who, in his final days, sat alone in a prison wondering if he'd gotten it wrong, and was eventually beheaded for speaking truth. Or Jeremiah, the "weeping prophet," an empath who was refused the comfort and companionship of a wife, suffered rejection, humiliation, physical pain, and imprisonment, and saw his beloved Jerusalem decimated by heartless Babylonians. 

How did you die? someone might ask them.

Martyred. How did you die? they might ask in return, looking at me.

Crossing against the light while scrolling Instagram.

We are pathetically soft. If we want to go to our death with the full confidence we have carried our cross daily, been poured out, used up, done all we could for the Kingdom of God, the question we need to ask ourselves now is, How do I live? Do I live sacrificially, against the status quo, for God alone. Am I living in imitation of Jesus and those others who laid down their lives for the brethren in His name? Or do I merely exist from paycheck to paycheck, on a quiet cul-de-sac, with neighbors who insist on overhanging my driveway, weary with purposelessness and seeking all I can for myself? Can you imagine explaining the asperity of that sort of suffering to The Apostle Paul?

Photo courtesy LuAnn Martin