Tell Me My Stories of Jesus

Last night, as we request of each other often, Keith asked me to "tell him a story". After ten years of marriage, this little practice of ours still uncovers hidden gems - seemingly insignificant moments from our childhood that we managed to never share before, that somehow always reveal something about who we are and how we got here. I've learned everything from favorite moments with his siblings, to lingering regrets, to unspoken goals from these simple, yet intimate, conversations.

My memory yesterday evening was of my house on Animas Street, in Trinidad. Our old brick house had a wrap-around porch, with three front doors. One of the doors opened into what was made into a television room, with imitation-wood paneling that reached the middle of the walls, with maroon wallpaper scaling up the rest of the walls, with little blue paisleys. Another door opened into my mother's piano studio, and Dad had a sign made for her, with the words "CON BRIO MUSIC STUDIO" burned into wood, handing from the window. (Occasionally, a stranger would knock on the door and ask if he or she could record an album there.) The third and main door opened into the living room, where our blue Montgomery Ward couch set lived, along with a little wooden trunk my mother picked out at a second-hand store, in Pueblo.

I lived in that house from fourth grade to sixth, and you don't realize how much of your development happens in that time span, until you lie awake, staring at the ceiling in the dark of the evening, telling your husband everything you remember learning in that little house on Animas Street during those crucial years.

It was in that house that I saw my Daddy lying in bed with a yellowed bruised jawline, because a criminal had knocked him out onto the street the evening before. Small town cops don't usually have backup, but for some reason - he did that night, and the other officer had been able to call an abundance and save him from further violence. I marveled repeating this incident to Keith, as I never remember being terribly concerned for my father. He was invincible to me, and I accepted that he would make it and be okay.

I remember the big, open window on the second floor of that house. It looked out over the whole neighborhood. One evening, my mother was awoken by loud noises outside and looked out that top window to see a riot breaking out on our street, with our young neighbor at the helm of fist fights and damaged property. She called the police, and one of my father's favorite stories is still the night he got to push that kid up against a wall and say, "I'd like to introduce myself to you; I'm your new neighbor. You're under arrest".

My mother and I were standing in the tiny upstairs kitchen of that quirky house and she was washing a dish and I was dishing out gossip about a teenager who was newly pregnant. She stopped, looked at me, and said, "You know that sex isn't bad, right? It's just that God made it for married couples, and it can have consequences outside of marriage". I had no idea what sex was, but I knew by her mannerisms that what she had said to me was important.

My brother slept in a pantry. And I was jealous. The home had previously been chopped up as apartments (hence the term "upstairs kitchen"). It was so cool. His room was lined with puke-yellow linoleum and his closets were all the shelves. It had a slanted ceiling and was just big enough for his little twin-sized bed. He and I would play in the front yard, one of us would rule "grassland" and the other would rule "sidewalk land". I once made him cry so badly (he was 5 or 6) that I forced him to take a nap and then worked to convince him he had just had a horrible dream, and I hadn't actually been that mean. I also hit him in the head with a baseball bat in that front yard. I'm sorry, Michael.

There was a little boy and his little brother that often roamed the neighborhood with no parental supervision, and though I couldn't have understood the full implication that they didn't have a good home-life, even a child could understand there wasn't much in their favor. I was mostly welcoming and accommodating, but once in our alley, we were all playing basketball and I was mean to Jeremy to impress a cool kid from school. I hit Jeremy and allowed myself the attention of laughing onlookers. I have felt bad for the 23 years since that day, and often wonder where sweet Jeremy, without a parent to care, ended up.

It is no wonder the old hymn asks, "Tell me the stories of Jesus, I love to hear". It is no wonder that the Messiah would choose for His life to be told in a collection of snippets, written from the varying perspectives of those who lived alongside Him. Salvation itself is brought to us in the piecing together of a life, each chapter an individual lesson, each verse its own moment, woven together to show us this One we call Jesus, Father, Abba, Savior.

You can post every meme you want about moving on from the past, looking towards the future, and living in the present. But I present to you the possibility that everything you need to know about who God is and what your purpose is lies not in anything grand, but in the remembrance of a million little parts. God created me to be Keith's wife, and Madelynn's mama, but it was only possible if I was first a little girl in a little brick house, sitting on those old fashion registers until I could no longer take the heat on my bottom.

My prayer for you this week is that you might look to the ones you love, and ask them to tell you a story.

How Esther Got a Book Deal

My dad calls me a “truth teller”. My old boss told me I was just “too honest”. And my friends often describe offensive, loud-mouthed personalities as, “ … even worse than Jen”, as though my character is distinctive enough to serve as a litmus test for others’. Sometimes I think I am just born with it, though other times my dad tells me I remind him of his older brother, other times I recognize it when my dad is risking his personal successes in favor of fending for someone else’s. I see it when my mother gets that look on her face in Sunday School and we all know she is about to disagree with the pastor. My brother didn’t get to be a jazz professor at age 27 by playing quietly in the back of a few bar gigs, either; every loud note and brave solo speaks the testimony of a “truth teller”. Genetics, maybe - but I also believe the Bible tells of a God who calls lineages into priesthood and leaderships. Perhaps there is something to the theory that generations ago God called out over Creation a family that might not know better than to speak Truth, even when it hurts. My six year-old has left me speechless often times, whether it be the days she is pointing out to kids at the McDonald’s playground that the signs says “Must Wear Socks”, or the days I fall prostrate before the Lord after I hear her address my universalist in-laws with Scripture.

It’s a rough path, being part of the truth-telling caste. I recently finished a book about the emergence of capitalism in India within the last twenty years. The fictional commentary pressed readers to consider whether a starving peoples aware of opportunity is better off than one who had long accepted their destiny. This must surely be why we are asked to have faith “like a child”; Madelynn never questions the movement of the Spirit to call others to accountability, but as adult truth-tellers, my family is often aware, broken, and sorrowful for the cross we must bear. We have lost jobs. We have risked reputation. We have squandered money for hope and justice, with no account for who might pay us back. We’ve offended and we’ve sacrificed comfortable relationships for higher purposes.  

This week was one of those weeks for my family. My dad lost his job. Police work is one of those professions that requires truth-telling. And it will eventually catch up with you. As folks have posted expressions of hope and encouragement on facebook, or maybe made a phone call or two, a familiar phrase has made its way into conversations, “for such a time as this”. And what a powerful phrase it is, a reminder from Spirit-breathed Holy Scriptures, reminding us that there is a God on the Throne of Heaven who is. not. shaken. He has orchestrated all things from the beginning of time. “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose for them” (Romans 8:28).

“for such a time as this” comes to us in the story of Esther. An orphaned Jewish child, she grows up with her uncle. Her good fortune in the gene-pool places her in the front-runnings as she competes in what must be the most extravagant beauty-pageant modern day has account of. For a year, she was prepped with oils and perfumes and an array of servants to make her crownable. In an ironic twist, she even had a version of the stereotypical gay pageant-coach we see on reality tv, as the king’s top eunuch, Hegai, was assigned to prep her for the big competition. In the end, she becomes queen - and eventually plays a significant role in saving a line of Jews members of the king’s court were plotting against. And this is where we pull the famous greeting-card-worthy line of encouragement from, “If you keep quiet at a time like this deliverance for the Jews will arise from some other place, but you and your relative will die. What’s more, who can say but that you have elevated to the palace for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14).

Hanging tightly to these words the other evening, as I have so many times in my life, I asked Mady if I might read her the story of Esther for her bedtime book. Being that her children’s Bible depicts drawings of a queen in beautiful robes (okay, actually an asparagus in beautiful robes, because its Veggie Tales, but still …), she was all about it.

Ever have one of those moments where you realize your perception of a Bible story comes only from the pamphlet-summaries you were read in Sunday School as a kid? LIke … you assume you actually know the story, but then realize you don’t? Yea. That happened to me. Because the first chapter of Esther isn’t about Esther at all. It’s about Vashti. Vashti was married to King Xerxes first, and was part of an extravagant party he was throwing, and like most modern parties - was off chatting with the ladies while her husband and the other men were drinking a few beers. Maybe not a few, actually, because the Scriptures tell us that ‘ol King Xerxes got drunk and found himself bragging to the other fellas about how hot his wife was. Being the King and all, he demanded that his pretty little wife come show herself off to his pals. Now, I am not an expert on Biblical cultures, but I am going to go ahead and assume that given the context of this story and the era it took place in, this might not have been the most innocent of requests. We have the habit of reading these nice little Bible stories and forgetting what the reality would have looked like. Picture Xerxes as the powerful, millionaire owner of a strip-club franchise and he asks his favorite little “pet” to come give a special dance for his high-dollar clients and suddenly stuff gets real.

Well, turns out Vashti was born to a line of truth-tellers. Because for whatever reason, this queen in about 480 BC (when women were ONLY property, tradable commodities, and killed for less) decides she’s just not going to do it. Perhaps she had said, “yes” for years and was growing weary, perhaps she herself had been drinking and suddenly had liquid-courage, or maybe Xerxes knew of her strong personality behind doors and was trying to save-face in front of other important men. I dunno, but she straight up told him she was not coming.

And he was pissed.

So pissed, as it were, that King Xerxes sent servants and advisors to the work and trouble of translating a decree in the languages of over 125 provinces in his kingdom, just to send an important message to all women: if you disobey your husband, you lose everything. And with that, Vashti was dethroned.

Ever hear a sermon preached on how Vashti was there for “such a time as this”? Me neither.

If Vashti lived today, I wonder what her friends might have said.

“Something better is going to come a long, Vashti! Don’t worry.”

“Keep dreaming, girl! I know you’ll do great things. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“God has even bigger and better plans for you! Can’t wait to see how He works in your life!”

“When God closes one door, He opens a window.”

“Honey, as soon as Xerxes is tired of Esther, he’ll come running back to you.”

“God is just testing you; He’ll bless you for this.”

“You did the right thing. You will be rewarded for this someday.”

“Any Joel Osteen quote ____________________________.”

The Bible doesn’t tell us what happened to Vashti after she was dethroned. But I am pretty sure she was never rewarded. I am not sure the scandal led to a book deal and tv appearances. There’s nothing in Scripture that indicates she was “better off without him”, or that she went on to have a successful career as an advocate for women’s justice. I think maybe she just … got dethroned and lost everything. And as much as she hoped Esther might get the same fate (women feel so much better when we see other women suffer … fact), she had to live to see Esther be a hero and enjoy a marriage with a man who adored her enough to allow her to influence political decisions.

What exactly did Esther do, by the way? She was pretty. She was willing to lie and cover up her true identity until it benefited her. She did what Hagai told her to do, and then what her uncle told her to do. Vashti, on the other hand, made a powerful and risky decision to stand up for what she believed in. The reality is, had Vashti not been there for “such a time as this”, we would never have heard of Esther. Mordecai’s family would have been punished, as planned. I mean really, didn’t Vashti get the short end of the legendary-tale stick? And to top it all off, Esther gets a whole book of the Bible named after her. I tell you what, I have tasted the bitter experience of being called “first runner-up”, but this one takes the cake.

It’s okay to want to be an Esther. As a mother, I have selfish hopes that my daughter’s disposition to tell Truth will land her in an influential position where she is treated kindly and adored by those she helps. But much in the way Abraham was asked to lay Isaac down for sacrifice, so must I trust Jesus Christ with the plans He has for using Madelynn for  His purpose, and His glory. And that may mean that at some point in her life, she will simply lose everything for standing up for what is right.

Not every broken road leads to true love. Not every closed door leads to an open window. Not every lost competition leads you to a grander victory. Not every divorce leads you to the person you were “meant to be with”. Lost jobs don’t always turn into better opportunity. Your friends might appreciate you someday for the loving Truth you had to present to them, or maybe they will genuinely resent you for the rest of your life. I dunno. What I do know is that the promise of relationships, opportunities, income, and earthly “wins” pale so terribly to the revealing someday of a grand and beautiful Kingdom, built by the loving hands of  God who held you closely during it all, and used you to place every stone exactly where it needed to be, even when your limited view saw only a painful journey.

Speak Truth.

JNACK

Lost at Sea

I’m a crier. Like, I am not sure it’s normal. Ask anyone who knows me well. Actually, ask anyone that knows me even a little. If you’ve ever watched a touching movie with me, or Oprah, or good Lord … a sweet commercial, you’ll know that I get misty eyed reeeaall easy-like. For that matter, if you’ve ever looked for a shirt in my store, you’ve seen me cry. This is not made up, people;  I cried the other day with a customer named, Stacey, because I was telling her the story of what we do – that we strive to help women love themselves, and I just plum lost it. Every email I send to my employees, telling them stories of who we’re capable of reaching and touching, has tears behind it; I assure you.  When my mom and I talk, we spend at least 30% of our conversation stumbling upon the subjects of children in poverty, uneducated good-folks trying to make a living, and gallant Christian women we admire. And yes, we end up crying. I have had to tell my mother to be careful about calling at work … because, well, I don’t know why I care – because I’ve already cried around those people.

I admire crying in other folks. My husband is fairly even-keel, but let me tell you something – and please keep this between you and the other 500 folks that view my blog – that man cries at inspirational YouTube videos. We joke at my work about how “fun” it must be to get invited to our home … Keith and I have literally found ourselves lost in a pile of used Kleenex, after a good run of “No wait, watch this one …”. My daughter cries when “cute birdies” get hurt in cartoons, and I find it endearing.  My father, a police officer and picture of controlled professional-emotion, is not afraid to cry. I have watched him in the pulpit, as he speaks of God’s tremendous grace, cry. And I have sat with him in conversations when I was twelve about his hurting over my abusing his trust, or at age twenty-eight when I wanted to know how to move forward when marriage got hard. His advice has many times included honest tears.

Just this past Sunday, at the end of a long and emotional debate within ourselves over where we should attend church, the answers were suddenly clear as we sat in the congregation of a priest who freely cried in the midst of the pomp and circumstance of his dress robes. Reading from a book, he began to describe a character’s experience of serving AIDS patients. The prose, a beautiful and vivid picture of humble servitude, brought him to choke on his own tears and emotions as he, no doubt, reflected on this phenomenon in his own life and in the life of his congregation.

And I, a product of parents who see Jesus in the lowliest of folks … I, who sees God most clearly among those who cannot possibly repay a favor … I, who struggles to accept God has placed me in a position to serve those in privileged classes … I, who feels most at home in the tiny impoverished town I was raised in… I felt God speaking to the very core of me and I … I held my breath in the most vigorous of attempts to not cry in church. Because, my Friends, I hate crying in church and I avoid it in high stakes.

Is this to say it never happens, that I never lose that tiny bit of control I hold in the tightness of my throat and swift swipes of my finger to my eye? Of course not, it’s happened. But it doesn’t when I can control it. And I assure you, it’s a practiced discipline – the art of keeping my natural tendencies from happening at the foot of the Holy of Hollies. But at some point in my adult life (I recall freely crying as part of worship during my adolescence when I didn’t know better than to bring honest emotion to the Father), I decided it was embarrassing, possibly inappropriate, to cry in church. Or, perhaps, at one point I realized I wasn’t crying tears of appreciation and love for the Father, but tears of remembrance for the mistakes I had made. Maybe I was afraid that people would judge me, or assumed they would know they were seeing tears of guilt. I dunno. But I don’t cry in church.

And then I think of the old hymn, “There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Immanuel’s veins; and sinners, plunged beneath that flood, lose all their guilty sins”. There is a fountain, in all of us who profess to know Christ. And wouldn't it make sense that when we are in His presence, when we are hearing His word, and listening to Him speak through His loyalist of servants, that something would spring from that well? It makes sense, too, then – that in those every day moments of grace, my fountain would begin bubbling up. From the Life Source, the Ultimate Spring, comes the physical outpouring and offering of grace in the form of salty tears. So what’s the catch? Why a generous well in my every day, and the nervous turning off of a valve when I am in the presence of other Believers?

Ah and there it is. It’s not a matter of crying “at church” I am afraid of, it’s a matter of crying with “The Church”. Sniffle a little with someone who doesn’t share my faith, and I have provided a powerful witness. Get misty-eyed with another Believer here and there, and we feel the very real and comforting presence of The King. Cry with a body of Believers, though, and suddenly one risks (or perhaps seals a fate of) merging one fountain with many. The Spirit that lives in me longs to pour out and meet you where you are, as parts of the Body that He lives and functions in this world through. And I guess, as marvelous as it all sounds, the recognition of my small part in an infinitely larger purpose that I cannot possibly see or fully understand, causes me to gasp and hope I don’t let my small sense of control be lost in the sea of Who We Are.

The uncomfortable, and equally undeniable, truth is this: I don't want to know what God is capable of doing in my life. And while the smart seventh-grader refuses to do his homework in hopes of being "cooler", and the talented young-gymnast rebels by not going to practice, so do I refuse to plug into anything that would bring about the full greatness of God's work in my life. Let me taste Your Goodness, oh Lord, but keep me, I pray, in the smallness of the world I know and love. Baptize me in the cool refreshment of your Blood, but keep me from the immersion of living and sharing with Your People.

Perhaps you're not a crier. Perhaps when the Spirit pours out of you, it is in song - and yet you will not sing at church. Perhaps the Anointment in you touches and collaborates with the Anointment in fellow Believers when you share revelation of Scripture - but you're much more comfortable doing that with close friends, certainly never in you small group. Perhaps you are a Truth Sayer, and you know this - but also know it offends people, so you keep it for the friends you know won't abandon you. Or, maybe you've prayed for deliverance, and have seen answers, but wouldn't want attention on yourself by sharing this at church. Consider this, my Friends: maybe it is not the possible negative consequences of your sharing that you fear at all. Maybe what you fear is the powerful potential of a great spiritual confluence. Maybe you know, as I do, that life would never be the same - and something about the same seems comforting and safe.

I think of the aging praise-song, "Let. The. River. Flow."

Father, you are an all-knowing, all-powerful, and unknowable God. And yet, we know you. We know you on an intimate level, in a way servants rarely know their King. Lord, know that within my love for you lay the confusion of what it means to fear you. Remove the unhealthy desire to be afraid, instead of to fear. Give me the sort of reverence that causes quite the opposite of hesitancy, but a passion to jump right in. Draw out of me the pieces of You that to connect with the places You reside in others. Let my willingness to spill You out be what draws Your Spirit from others.

May we all dive in.

JNACK

Five Things You Need to Know About Your Christian Friend

1.       She has no connection to, nor does she have the desire to be connected, in anyway, to Westboro Baptist Church.

That’s right, the kooky group of hateful idiots that refer to themselves as “Westboro Baptist Church”, do only that … they refer to themselves with words that are also commonly found in the name of actual Sanctuaries of Worship. Please do not assume that this group has any actual influence in the Christian community, that the Christian community has any actual influence on this group, or that this group deserves near the press it gains every time it shows up somewhere uninvited.

Using Westboro Baptist Church to ascribe feelings and/or stances to your Christian friend or to the overarching community of Christians is much like using a violent gang member, who happens to be black, to ascribe characteristics to a black man. It’s offensive, don’t do it.

2.       He has probably never sat in a church service, ever, where he was influenced or encouraged to hate someone for having different beliefs or living differently than he does.

Funny thing, I have attended literally thousands of church services in my lifetime. I have attended Baptist services, Catholic services, Assembly of God services, Disciples of Christ services, Church of Christ services, Dutch Reformed services, Episcopal services, Lutheran services, Presbyterian Services, Nazarene services, Non-Denominational services, and Methodist services. I have attended weddings, music services, revivals, prayer services, private Bible studies, and school-mandated services. But never, in my thirty years, have I attended a service where explicitly, or implicitly, I have been told it is acceptable on any level to hate someone for being different or believing something different than I do. It would be near impossible for any church, claiming to serve Christ as the Messiah, to do so – it’s against the very nature of the teachings we honor … God is the very definition of Love.

Acknowledge that your friend is part of an historic religion that practices a strict way of living. Disagree with the sanctions put in place by your friend’s faith. Discuss with him why he believes in the standards set forth in his religion’s Holy Scriptures, just as you would with your Jewish, Islamic, or Buddhist friend. But please, don’t call him “friend” and then viciously attack him for attending a secret-society of hateful meetings that do not exist.

3.       You might not realize it, but she faces daily discrimination for her beliefs and, in many cases, is treated as a second-class citizen.

Listen, no thoughtful, intelligent Christian will try to deny the advantage of her peoples for the last several hundred years of Western history. We have pretty much been on top of the world! Our cultural values have reigned supreme; our political alliances have shunned those not in alignment with our way of life. And for a time, our standards were what it meant to be “American”.

But here’s the thing, in 2013, and for those savvy enough to be reading a blog, your Christian friend probably never enjoyed the Christian-benefit of the 50s. Your friend is most likely a child of the 70s or 80s, and grew up in the America that listened to feminists say her faith isn’t in alignment with new reproductive-rights standards, or in alignment with new sexuality standards, or with new consumer standards.

Your friend was most likely raised in a school system that inaccurately applied laws, after a series of lawsuits. She was told she couldn’t pray at the cafeteria table, that she couldn’t write a paper about her God, that she couldn’t start a Bible club, and that she couldn’t hand out information to her friends at school about an after-school church event.

Your friend is stared at uncomfortably if she uses the word, “Christian”, “Evangelical”, or “Jesus” in a public place. She faces termination is she mentions the words at her job, and she is shunned out of any political or social-advocacy discussions, because of the immediate presumption she is an ignorant, closed-minded bigot.

She knows she enjoys amazing religious freedoms, and she doesn’t take them for-granted. She also knows that much of the martyrdom and government-sanctioned discrimination of her peoples in other parts of the world started with laws and movements she is seeing in her own country.

Tread lightly: you can disagree with her stances, but try to admire her for keeping them.

4.       He is very possibly pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, and pro-Obamacare.

If you have a friend that is a Christian, care enough about him to learn a little more about the way his religion is organized. The theology that makes an individual identify with the Christian Church is a belief that Jesus, a recognized historical figure, was the Son of God, sent in human form. From this belief stems an array of doctrines (particulars for the way the overarching theology is carried out). While there will be sticklers in ANY movement or belief system (that has to do with personality, not creed), the vast majority of Christian peoples leave room for disagreement on the lines drawn between these doctrines. As so well put by St. Augustine, “In essentials: unity, in non-essentials: liberty, and in all things: charity.”

Baptists, for example, take an organizational stance that the consumption of alcohol can so often lead to hurtful behavior that it is best to abstain entirely. Quite the contrary, wine will be served, assuredly, at every Catholic or Lutheran function! Many denominations within the Christian faith place emphasis on social justice through charity work, while others place more emphasis on in-house ministries, such as touching lives through Bible study and music services.

It would follow, then, that there are Christian peoples who believe they honor God’s calling by loving the women facing abortions, loving the gay community by supporting legalization of gay marriage, and supporting social healthcare as a means of protecting God’s children. Others believe they are honoring God as the only Determiner of life by opposing abortion, His instructions for marriage in Scripture by opposing gay marriage, and a call for faith communities to support people in need instead of governments supporting people, by opposing Obamacare.

It might be hurtful and frustrating for your Christian friend to spend countless coffeehouse discussions in support of gay marriage only to see you bash his entire faith community on facebook, with the accepted view that “they’re all the same”.

5.       She didn’t write the rules.

Within the reality that lots of Christians carry out God’s Calling in lots ways, comes the necessary acceptance that without Holy Scriptures and definite rights and wrongs and absolutes, a religion is just an elaborate club. Maybe you believe that is exactly what religion is to begin with … an elaborate club. Whatever your stance on religion (many a secular sociologist can lead you to the conclusion is serves a valuable place in society), you can surely agree a person who pushes her own religion’s values and cultural heritage to the side must surely be loosely committed, if committed at all.

Do you need to agree with everything your Christian friend believes? No. Should you be able to openly and respectfully discuss your Christian friend’s opposing viewpoints? Yes. But please, don’t act shocked and mortified that she won’t abandon her Christian denominational sanctions just because they offend you, or the majority of the public, for that matter. In the same way an American Islamic woman wears her hijab, despite modern cultural acceptance of women’s choices; your Christian friend might “wear” her views on gay marriage, or abortion rights.

Please … she is honoring her religion. She did not write the rules, and she is struggling to apply her Holy Scriptures in a world that tells her they’re unacceptable. She is praying, she is discussing, and she is seeking. Let her honor her religion, and keep conflict of issues separate from criticism of her faith.

JNACK

They Call Him "Mr. Popularity"

Confusing relationships: we've all had them. It’s the ex-boyfriend that still lingers as a friend. It’s the girlfriend that you have nothing in common with anymore, but you've been friends since high school, so she still has meaning in your life. It’s the relative you only met as a child, but sends you birthday cards. It’s the co-worker you love personally, but bothers you at work. Or, it’s the best friend you are suddenly a manager over.

I have balanced and battled this phenomenon since birth because I am a female and know all too closely the most famous of complicated relations … the “frenemy”. Some I have learned to manage and others I have mastered. Social media works wonders! The ex-boyfriend gets a “happy birthday” to let you know you don’t hate him, but no private instant-messages. The girlfriend gets, “congrats” for the new baby and lots of “likes” on her photos, but no group invite to the cocktail party. The relative can post old photos, and suddenly you realize that her bonds with your mother are the reason she loves you so much, and there is new appreciation. The co-worker posts on her wall about how she loves the people she works with and you smile. And the best friend learns that your boss is also on fb, and there is a light-bulb moment that she can’t cross lines that might put you in an awkward position.

There is one complicated relationship, however, that I have spent my most solitude of moments attempting to balance. My deepest moments, my most sincere of moments, my most complex moments have been dedicated to understanding one that perhaps I cannot. I serve a God who crafted the Universe, He crafted me, and He crafted my child. He has no beginning and no end, and His Scriptures paint Him on a throne, administering The One True Kingdom … to be revealed in all its glory one day. He is the author not simply of life, but of death. Those who serve Him will enter the eternity He controls and those who do not, He will cast into punishment. And yet, within these Truths lies the Reality that He broke off a piece of Himself, His Son, to come and walk and serve with commoners to share with a simple world a simple message: that He is accessible.

I don’t care what you say, women may ask you to not buy a gift and then scold you for not giving one, we may ask for an honest opinion and then cry when you give it to us, we may tell you we hate our best friend and then embrace her with tears and joy … but we are, at minimum, easier to understand than This Guy. We don’t command that every knee shall bow, but sit with the undesirables in the cafeteria. We don’t own everything in heaven and earth and then stage our child’s birth in a barn with fifthly animals. And I assure you, all the facebook and twittering in the world isn't helping me on this one.

It isn't much, but here is what I do know about complicated relationships: you error on the least of consequences.  The consequence of not reaching out to an ex-boyfriend I am still friends with is that he might be offended and might even say means things about me to other people. The consequence of being too buddy-buddy is that I hurt My Beloved and my daughter and possibly our marriage. I choose the first option. If I reach out to a relative I don’t know too well, I can end up having to fork out an extra Christmas gift every year. If I don’t, I can lose out on learning new things about my heritage and can hurt someone who cares about me. I choose the first option. 

I believe in a merciful Father, I believe in a forgiving Father, I believe in a Father who listens and cares and hurts for us. I believe in a Heavenly Host who lifts up the tiny chins of those on their faces before Him and says, “You are loved.” I believe in a Savior who turns solemn and memorized hymns into sincere praise. I believe in a Prince of Peace who hears desperate pleas to the Almighty in times of war and opens soft arms to welcome hurt souls into an eternity of comforts unknowable to us. I worship and bow down to God who took a small penny from a poor woman and chose to use her as an eternal example and picture of all He really desires from us … our best.

Brothers and Sisters, my goodness I believe in a God who sees us in our reverent moments and reminds us He does not have to be called down, He has always been here.

I also believe in a Father who stands waiting for the praise He deserves while we perform for ourselves in our church services. I believe I serve a God that is glad to hear we are working to impress the masses as a faith community, but reminds us He needs to be impressed; that is our work here. I believe I bow down to a Lord that remembers the era of Gothic architecture, causing worshipers to be in a state of “awe” even as they walked in, and waits for the same quiet and reflection as we laugh and slap high-fives in our steel buildings. I believe this same God hears the cries and singing of third-world villages that have no building at all, but worship in the face of those who might kill them for their faith, then mourns to see us nod our heads at universalism in an attempt to show we are tolerant. I believe I serve a God who knows exactly who He is, and hurts that we do not.

And here is the key: I believe there will be many who called Him a “friend”, but failed to revere Him as their Savior. I also believe that as the Lord looks at them and says, “I never knew you”, there will be worship leaders, pastors, evangelists, and well-intended Believers who will recognize those faces as the ones that were invited to seeker-friendly services, to small-groups around coffee, to concerts and events, to services … all tailored to spread the message that a relationship with Christ isn't complicated at all.

May we choose to error on God picking our chins up from the floor, wiping away undeserving tears, and mending the wounds of knees set in constant prayer and whispering gently, “It’s okay. I am here.” 

JNACK

O Yam of God

I have joked, a number of times in my life, about how I do not know where I am from. Born and raised in Warrensburg, MO, my family bought an RV when I was 6 and traveled to Colorado, where we spent the next eight years in Trinidad. We spent another two years in Walsenburg before moving back to Missouri. I spent my high school and college years in Hannibal, and then city-hopped a bit before ending up in Kansas City. Then, after meeting my now spouse, I moved back to Colorado and lived in Denver. I am now 29; half of my life has been spent in Colorado and half in Missouri.

Just over a year and a half ago, I was given an extraordinary opportunity to move back into the “house that built me”, and Keith and Mady found themselves sharing the very house I spent my junior high years in, in Walsenburg. Additionally, they were able to spend their share of time in nearby Trinidad, complete with driving tours of my old stomping grounds, and coffee dates with some old friends.

I know where I am from now.

There are a great many self-revelations, affirmations, and actualizations that come when one realizes where home is. Some may never know because they have lived in the same place so long they have never questioned the implications of being home. Some have been so hurried to leave home they miss the lessons. Others, and I believe I am in a rare and blessed minority, are given this profound experience of wandering and learning and exploring and then coming back with new sight and appreciation, and a sensitivity to the question, “How did this place, and these people, shape me?”

Oh, I wish I could fully examine, in words, the glorious, glorious answers to those questions. I am new, I am whole, and I am acutely aware and appreciative having answered those questions. I am refreshed, revived, and newly passionate having answered those questions.

I am loud for a reason. I am opinionated for a reason. I am honest for a reason. I am sensitive for a reason. I am loyal for a reason. I am loving for a reason. I am a bitch for a reason. I get offended for a reason. I am close to my family for a reason. I am expressive for a reason. I am limited for a reason. I am not limited for a reason. I studied what I studied for a reason. I protect whom I protect for a reason. I feel a calling for a reason. I serve my God uniquely for a reason. I reach out to others for a reason. I close myself off to others for a reason. I am ghetto for a reason. I worked on becoming refined for a reason. I question things for a reason. I accept things for a reason. I judge who I judge and I embrace who I embrace for reason. “I yam who I yam …” for a reason. 

I hope I never reach a point in my short life when I refuse to continue to grow and refine who I am. But, I have seen home, I  have remembered and smelled and touched and listened to all that went into making me who and what I am, and so I hope desperately, also, that I never reach a point in my short life that I apologize for who and what I am. To build on who I am is to honor and give new life to the people and rich culture of Southern Colorado, who breathed life into what I have become. To change and hide who I am is to erase beautiful colors from this unique mosaic.

Brothers and Sisters, if you are serving my God, but have never considered your Home, you are missing out on a great many self-revelations, affirmations, and actualizations that come when one realizes where Home is. I cannot claim to have reached the fullness of this concept, but believe we can catch a glimpse of these Truths through Scripture and experience.

1. When we realize where our Home is, we realize we are Sons and Daughters of The King on High.

Boy, that changes things, doesn’t it? Do we conduct ourselves in a way that reflects our Inheritance? Do I take comfort in this when I obsess over my earthly possessions, without stopping to realize I am heir to a heavenly Kingdom? Do I act as a gracious Royal, taking mercy on those who have not been Chosen? Do I work to share my eternal wealth? Do I understand the depth of the riches awaiting me, therefore making it easy for me to give it all away, while here, to those in need? Do I carry myself with the kind of grace you would expect from someone given so much?

2. When we realize where our Home is, we realize this earth is temporal.

Someone at work really getting to you, lately? Feeling like you don’t make enough money? Regret you never got an agent and became a super model (okay, sorry, that’s … that’s just me)? Can’t stand that people who cheat the system get ahead? Bothered by who’s in political office?

When you know where your Home is, you are able to look past this world’s frustrations, and begin to look at this life as a ticking clock, with such limited time to do Good.

3. When we realize where our Home is, we realize where it isn’t.

There is so much Scriptural evidence to encourage us to not be alarmed when this world rejects us, persecutes us, and is perplexed by us. And yet, we fight against a human nature that desires desperately to be accepted. This manifests itself in what I believe has been the weakening of the American Church over the last 30 years, as we have worked to change our message, our music, and our manifesto to please a society rejecting our traditions.  Be careful to enjoy an existence where no one here notices you don’t belong.

Maybe you are living in the same little town you always have. Maybe you are reading this on your iphone while whipping through interstate traffic and scoffing at the old dirt roads you’ve long left behind. Maybe you’re wandering aimlessly through your day to day and wishing you knew where home is. Wherever you are, if you profess to know Jesus Christ, Heaven, ultimately, is your Home. My wish for you is that as this becomes more real and more evident in your life, that you share my conclusion:

You are forgiven for a reason. You are loved for a reason. You are embraced for a reason. You serve for a reason. You let things go for a reason. You are kind for a reason. You are called for a reason.  You meet people for a reason. You are blessed for a reason.  You face consequence s for a reason. You are in your family for a reason. You listen for a reason. You sing for a reason.  You study for a reason. You submit for a reason. You endure hardship for a reason. You grow for a reason. You can say, “I yam who I yam” … for a reason.

I hope you never reach a point in your short life when you refuse to continue to grow and refine who you are. But, you have tasted Home, and so I hope desperately, also, that you never reach a point in your short life that you apologize for who and what you are. To build on who you are is to honor The One who made you. To change and hide who you are dulls the vibrant red that was shed for your Salvation.

For Better, I am Worse

Luis C.K. has this really hilarious bit where he shares his appreciation for being white. His witty rant includes the admission that he can safely enter a time machine and go back to any place in history, only to be treated like a king. Really, he says, a white man – how much better can it get?

I may not be a white man, but I have certainly had a similar realization in my life; I am not just white, I am middle-class to boot, and American! Schweet. I fear some of my constant pokes at the white middle-class (I often choose to refer to this culture as, “suburban” for the sheer typing convenience of one word, rather than three) has wrongly offended folks who believe I have some sort of inaccurately placed hatred towards anyone living in the outskirts of Denver. Not so. Much in the way folks refer to black people as “thugs”, I like to refer to white folks as “shallow” and “ignorant”; simple syntax and we all know I don’t really mean it that way, so why would anyone be offended? After all, I had a white person in my wedding …

Here is the thing: yes, sometimes I feel ashamed of what other people in my culture do or say, but I don’t know what it means to have a deep confliction  with what I am or what I represent. I have never had to come home and think, “If I weren’t black, my teachers would respect me.” I have never looked in the mirror and thought, “If I weren’t gay, my parents would respect me.” I have never walked out of store and realized if I weren’t Hispanic, the clerks wouldn’t have followed me so closely. And I have certainly never struggled with what I presume breeds guilt as all these thoughts run through my mind when I know I should be proud of who I am.

Or have I? White? Check. Female? Check (some resent this, I don’t … turns out being pretty can get you places, I embrace it). Middle-Class? Check. College Educated? Check. American? Check?  Good to go, right?

Not so. Not so, because I have spent the last few months starring in the mirror and wrestling over by very being, my very soul, my personhood, my heritage, by culture, my core.  I felt, suddenly, that ping of guilt as I realized I didn’t want to be who I am and who my parents raised me to be. I didn’t want to embrace my culture and the very fibers that made me who I am. That feeling of not wanting to let my parents and my friends and those who share my culture and my heritage know that I secretly wished I wasn’t one of them. That feeling of thinking, “Things would be so different if …”

Things would be so different if I didn’t know Christ. There it is, for the world and the entire internet to read. Yea, there it is. I have been facing life decisions that cause people to remind me of what I can’t do and  what I am limited to do, because of who I am, because of my lineage and a piece of me that cannot change. There are many who understand us to be a religion, but those of us who know … well, we know. We are a people, a culture, and an identity. And no more can a person hide ethnic features than I can hide the markings of a loving God who has chosen me for His purpose.

I can’t hide them, but I can resent them, just as an individual might find herself wanting to change the very features that make her unique and yet part of a distinct ethnic or cultural community.  The hope, though, for that young person with “black people hair”, with a “Jewish nose”, or with the traditional sari her mother is making her wear, is that as she grows and matures, she begins to not only accept herself, but find pride in what both sets her apart and makes her part of that community. We hope for her that she eventually shares the thoughts of India Aire, “I’m not the average girl in the video …”

Certainly, in the case of my faith community, we hope the same for our own. As a person matures in her faith, she begins not only to accept that this is not simply a lifestyle but an identity, but she begins to embrace it and celebrate it. And yet, here is what I know: in those deep moments, in the quiet and the dark moments when I stared at the wall thinking, “How can I get out of being who I am?”, I was as close to the heart of Christ as I have ever been.

I do not serve a God who needs me. He continues to function, to love, to create, and to write histories through all my insults and my anger and my resentment. Just as we have drawn pictures of earthly tribe-leaders, patiently allowing young students to test the boundaries of their traditions, so we serve a God who lets us try and remove our cultural dresses and war paint, lovingly promoting us to adulthood as we come back, embarrassed that we failed to see the value of our customs.

And suddenly this realization: that there is a level of spiritual awakening that occurs when God is clearly and certainly your burden. He is not simply your Healer, your Friend, your Father, your Savior – but the heavy cross cutting deeply into the frame of who you are. And then you get it – that He asks you to bring Him all your hurt and to place it at His feet, yes – but that He also assures us that He is a stumbling block. And He takes all your sin on the cross and becomes all the filth that you are, but then assures us we will be persecuted in His name. If we only experience one side of His promises, do we see Him fully?

Father, I am sorry that there are days I am ashamed to be Yours.  I ask forgiveness for the days I wish I couldn’t see You. I ask for guidance on the days I wish I was not chosen. Please cleanse me of the moments I resent my inability to run from the One that owns me. But Lord, thank you for the struggle. “For many are called, but few are chosen.” Matthew 22:14