Month: April 2008

  • Scandalous Hope — Hope Chronicles 33

    I am really enjoying working at Barnes and Noble. (The pay could be better, but the atmosphere is great.) I worked 1 day in the last 4 days but have popped in there 3 out of the 4. Today, I went to pick up one of Lysa’s books for someone.



    I was hailed to go to the register at the other end of the row of registers. As I was going, I mentioned that I was picking up a book and the manager snagged it for me. It was, as is customary, wrapped in white paper. She said, “You know we have to check it out.” I laughed and said, “Yeah, it’s pretty scandalous stuff.”



    When she handed my purchase to another bookseller, Will, to ring up, she said, “Yeah, it’s really racy all right.” Will looked pretty perplexed. We do see some racy things come through our lines, but I don’t think he would have put What Happens When Women Say Yes To God in that category!



    Speaking of that book. I’ve been reading it on line at Lelia’s site with some other women. It’s kind of fun to read everyone’s reactions. I picked this copy up to give to a friend.



    But the chapter and the Barnes and Noble banter got me thinking. We don’t typically think of Christianity as scandalous. Scandalous is the affairs of public figures or whatever is happening with Brittney Spears or any number of stars on a any given day. Scandalous is all about money and power and sex. Honestly, we are so saturated by it, that it takes more and more degrees of “scandal” for anything to register.



    We are the frog in the pot of water. Put a frog in a pot of boiling water and it quickly jumps out. Put it in a pot and then slowly turn up the heat, the frog will stay put while it boils to death. Culturally, it is the same thing.



    Shouldn’t Christianity be scandalous? Shouldn’t Jesus followers be the talk of the town? Too often we aren’t. We are milk toast not spice. Jesus created a “scandal” most of where He went:


    • To start, His entire birth was a scandal — unwed mother kind of stuff.
    • His lineage could be considered a scandal. It includes Rahab, the prostitute, and Ruth, the Moabitess. God chose not to have His son come from a “pure blood” line.
    • He talked to known sinners and tax collectors. He even had dinner with them.
    • He didn’t put anyone ahead of anyone else just because of who they were. For example, when Jarius’ (a big wig in town) daughter is ill and dying, Jarius comes to him in a panic. Jesus stops for a woman — a lowly woman — who had been bleeding for 12 years.
    • Jewish people weren’t big on cemeteries in that coming in contact with the dead made someone unclean. But Jesus travels across the Sea of Galilee to cast out a legion of demons in a man that the town really had no use for. Jesus healed him and instead of marveling at that and praising God, they got angry about their pigs. They cared more for pigs than people.
    • He challenged the religious authority of the day. He let them know when they had things backwards.
    • He was gentle with children but capable of enough anger that He overturned tables in the temple courtyard.
    • He went out of His way to talk to the Samaritan woman.

    And the list goes on and on. Jesus was gentle with those who needed tenderness but didn’t mind shaking up those who needed to be shaken up a bit.


    In What Happens When Women Say Yes to God, Lysa talks about radical obedience. In some sense, it is being willing to do whatever God asks even if it doesn’t make sense to our culture, our friends, our family, or even ourselves. Lysa writes, “Obedience becomes radical when we say, ‘Yes, God, whatever You want,’ and mean it. We release our grip on all that we love and over it back to Him, who loves us more.” That is hard to do, but it is the heart of the matter. Do we love God enough to give Him all that we hold precious and dear — finances, family, friends, dreams, hopes . . . .


    There is saying about the news: If it bleeds it leads. The power and hope of the gospel is that Jesus bled for us, He paid a blood debt we could never pay. Few of us really comprehend what that means at the core. Or if we glimpsed it when we became Christians, it’s lost it’s power as it has become “familiar.”


    A friend sent an email to me recently. It was about a prof who taught religion and sensed that the class didn’t grasp the reality of the cross. Anyway, he brought donuts to the class and asked the first person if they wanted one. They said, “Yes.” He had one of the other students do 10 push ups so the first could have a donut. And so it went through out the class with the same student doing the push ups. Soon, students were saying they didn’t want the donuts because they saw the exhaustion on the face of the student doing the push ups. They were becoming horrified that their donut was costing so much. But the prof had one student do them anyway. In the end He said, “Now, wouldn’t it be a shame to leave that donut sitting on the desk after all that was paid for it.”


    Perhaps, we should all be horrified, scandalized on a daily basis on what our salvation cost Jesus. If it bleeds, it leads. Maybe we should remember on a daily basis that Jesus died and rose again. And since He loved us enough to bleed and die for us, shouldn’t we follow His lead with radical obedience? Shouldn’t He be the talk of the town because we are loving prostitutes and junkies, caring for widows and orphans, standing up for things in small and big ways in our jobs and schools and communities, getting our hands dirty, changing the way we spend our money, our time, our talent, asking God for His direction even in the mundane things of life, . . . .


    Shouldn’t we be creating a daily scandal because we have a scandalous hope?

     

  • Mystery of the Missing PJs

    We are in the transition from winter to spring in central Illinois. However, last week, it was still – in my opinion – pretty cold. I also have this thing about comfort. I love my fleece pj’s. (Getting to wear fleece is one of the few good things about winter.)



    Last Tuesday night I went to put my snugly pj’s on. It had been a hard day. I had a migraine and all that kind of stuff going on. I wanted — I needed –my comfortable pj’s. Much to my dismay, I could not find the pj bottoms. Typically, they reside with the top waiting for me on the bed. I had done a load of laundry, so I checked to see if they had gotten thrown in there. Nada. I looked all around and couldn’t find them. I thought that maybe it was that I was tired and that I would find them on Wednesday



    Wednesday — no pj’s. I still had the top but that wasn’t working for me and my summer nightgown wasn’t cutting it. I added an additional couple blankets and bemoaned that losing a pair of pj bottoms when you are the only one in the house is surely a sign of losing your mind as well.



    Tonight, I dropped something on the floor. As I was picking it up, I noticed that a book had slid partially under the bed, so I knelt to retrieve it. Low and behold, I found a treasure trove of odds and ends — most importantly pj bottoms — that have turned up missing one by one over the last couple of weeks. Most of the items were cloth — socks (that I had assumed the dryer had eaten), a sweat shirt that I had no clue where it had gotten to, 4 hand towels, and a scarf. They were all balled up in a neat little nest of sorts in the very center under the bed.



    Mali is my scavenger. She is a stray at heart. I thought that it was mostly confined to food, but it appears otherwise. No, I’m not just picking on Mali. It’s just I’ve had her growl at me over a dishcloth before. I had assumed that it was because it had just been used and smelled like food. Never assume anything. These items were all relatively clean (if you discount the cat fur). She apparently needed them for comfort.



    Just like Katy, Mali typically shares my bed with me. (Actually, they get the lion’s share.) But apparently Mali wanted a bit of space to herself . . . . So, if I start to complain about missing items, please remind me that I live with a scavenger and I should check under the bed and any other hidey hole a cat might use.



    Case solved. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry that I’m losing my mind!

  • Six Word Memoirs — Hope Chronicles 32

    What can you say in six words? There is a new book out that says a lot or at the very least makes you wonder some about the person who wrote it. It is titled NOT QUITE WHAT I WAS PLANNING: SIX WORD MEMOIRS BY WRITERS FAMOUS AND OBSCURE.

    I know about it because of working in the bookstore. It’s one of the books we are “encouraging.” I’m not sure it is one that I would personally pick, but it does garnish a little interest. Not sure if it is urban legend or not, but the story goes that someone once challenged Ernest Hemingway to write a story in six words. He reportedly wrote “For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.” Thus, the idea for the book.

    At the bookstore, the rage has been to come up with your own six word memoir. They usually elicit more questions and quizzical looks than anything. My first try said more about where I use to be than where I am at: Phobic horse, anxious dog, grandiose delusions. (1. I use to take lessons on a horse with a phobia of concrete 2. I had an anxious dog at the same time that was on anti anxiety meds 3. I swore that if I had a parakeet it would have delusions of grandeur and think itself an eagle.) Not so great since it took 5 times as many words to explain.

    I finally settled on one today. Drum roll: Born pessimist choosing to find hope.

    I think I was born a pessimist. If I wasn’t born that way, early life experiences taught me to suspect the worst. But this year I am taking that journey of hope. I am choosing to find in amidst the ups and downs, the thrills and disappointments of life.

    I’ve only been at it since the beginning of December — just about 4 months since my first post on hope. And I am finding it to be a choice. It’s an attitude that says that God is present in the midst of every heartache and every laugh. Sometimes it takes a bit of looking to see His fingerprints on the situation.

    There is a juvenile detention center in town. It has struck me several times that it sits right next to a popular summer water park. I wonder if it is torture to those kids to see others having so much fun and not be able to join in. I think it would be hard! I imagine there are two ways of dealing with it: pulling the blinds and denying it’s there, squelch the longing or gaze out the window and dream and plan for the day when you could join.

    As a pessimist, I probably tend to be the first. But I like to think my journey of hope is making me the second. I want to be one who in the darkest of nights turns my face to the east because I know that is where the first rays of the sun will crest. Psalm 121:1-2 puts it this way:

    I lift up my eyes to the hills—
    where does my help come from?

    My help comes from the LORD,
    the Maker of heaven and earth.


    Is your soul downcast? Look to where you know your help will come from. Eagerly anticipate in spite of everything in life that may tell you it is foolish. Turn your face to the warmth of the coming sun and the coming Son. There are no cliffhangers with God and His word is true.


    What would your six word memoir be? Will you share?

  • Won’t You Be My Neighbor? — Hope Chronicles 31

    He called us friend and put on house slippers and a cozy sweater. He talked to us (but never down to us) and took us on make believe adventures. I’m dating myself, but Mr. Rogers was an integral part of my early life. And he always asked, “Won’t you be my neighbor?”

    We weren’t close to a lot of people growing up, but I did at least know who my neighbors were on the left and right and catercorner and across the street and several houses up . . . . I knew who the parents were and which kids to avoid and who might want to play a game of tag.


    It appears that it is less and less like that today. I live in a row of town houses. I know the people on either side and a couple down the alley but not many more than that. Still, I was totally caught off guard by two calls today at the office.


    I work in the county recorder’s office with deeds and mortgages and all that type of stuff. A gentleman called up and wanted to know why the site needed a password and user id. (It was locked down last summer due to social security numbers being on older mortgages and miscellaneous documents.) I explained how he could get a user id and password. As part of the process I asked him what he might be using the site for. “I want to know who my neighbors are,” is the answer I got. Hmm. Apparently, each year, for some reason, he takes a survey of the names of the people who live around him.


    Not 10 minutes later, I got a call from a woman who said that the house next to her had been foreclosed on and she wanted to know which bank now owned it. I told her that to do a search I would need the parcel id number or the name of her former neighbors. She had no clue as to the name of her neighbors.


    Hmm for second time in a day. Hmm. Seems like a plate of cookies and a handshake would do more than looking on line.


    But, perhaps, I’m not the best one to talk. While I do know a few people, I don’t know them well. Even at church I can be reserved.


    Every Sunday we have KidStuf — the children’s church. I’ve been helping with that. There is singing and dancing and laughing and skits. It’s great fun. I’m not particularly coordinated. So, sometimes I skip the dancing. But lately I’ve been taking pictures and when you are up front taking pictures you are more visible and it’s more conspicuous if you stand there like a bump on a log.


    But a couple of times, we have done a partner dance. And though I would like to duck out, I’ve noticed a child without a partner. I can overcome my fear of being a klutz to make a child smile, so I’ve found myself ducking less and dancing more.


    I need to have the same perspective with “big kids.” My thought with the children is always, “What can I do to make them happy or more comfortable?” Now what if I translated that to the adults around me? I think it would pass along hope in little ways.
    And wouldn’t Jesus say that everyone is our neighbor? So, friend, “Won’t you be my neighbor? I’d like to get to know you!”

  • What Was I Thinking?

    Well, after a week or a bit more of not blogging on Xanga, I’m back. I decided I couldn’t do without the community here. I hope you all will forgive me for bailing on you…..

    Amy