Sweet Sacrifice

Have you ever watched a movie that haunted you for days afterwards? Not necessarily a feel good, happy ending type of story, but one that set loose a yearning inside you nonetheless?

I’m tired of the rags to riches stories. I’m done with plots that exhort the virtues of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. And frankly, sappy “best life now” films gag me. Because you know what? I found them all to be lies. Every rag I traded for a silk robe, created in me nothing more than a desire for more fluff. Pulling myself up by my determination and my efforts alone kept me wallowing in a self-indulgent mire. Visualizing success and viewing God as a vending machine blinded my eyes with spiritual cataracts.

Decades ago I knew a guy. He was going on about being a self-made man; all that he had, he had earned himself. I looked around his sparsely furnished studio apartment, saw his bicycle in his parking space where a car would normally be, and thought, “Hmm. I’m not too sure I’d brag about that.” Now I look at my own life. I started out with little, picked up a few trinkets along the way, then picked up a few more, and here I am. Surrounded by trinkets. And I think to myself, “Hmm. I’m not too sure I should be bragging about this.”

I watched That Beautiful Somewhere the other night. It’s not a great movie by any stretch, maybe not even a good one. But there were elements in it that struck a chord in my heart. Its stark loneliness and the quiet beauty of the barren landscape in which it was filmed frame the message the director struggled to put forth.

The theme was sacrificial love.

The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve come to realize that those are the stories that captivate me. Is it because it’s so foreign to the way I live? Or is it because in my heart of hearts I know that it is the only way of living that brings joy? Is there something in the human psyche that identifies with truth, even when we reject it? And why oh why is it that Hollywood can figure that out when it’s been so difficult for me, a follower of the Truly Sacrificial One, to come to realize?

Saving Private Ryan, The Chronicles of Narnia, the Lord of the Rings movies, Black Hawk Down, Armageddon, they’ve been saying it all along. There is something about the giving of oneself that makes life real.

Recently I read about an event from the life of St. Francis. Apparently, shortly after his conversion he sensed God telling him, “Francis, all those things that you have loved in the flesh you must now despise, and from those things that you formerly loathed you will drink great sweetness and immeasurable delight.” I may be stretching the interpretation of the words, but I read in that that those things I fear will be a source of not only goodness but also wonder and edification for me. Those paths that I would never choose to tread will be the ones that lead me to the place for which my heart is longing. And if I open my eyes along the way, the trails themselves will begin to glimmer like gold.

You see, I think sacrificial living is one of those things I loathe. My baser nature recoils from it. In my tiny brain it’s all about me, it’s always been about me, and I want it to continue being about me.

Except when I know differently. Every once in a while I get what author Gary Thomas has dubbed “splashes of glory.” Snippets of life as it’s supposed to be. Kingdom glimpses, if you will. I think that’s what God was hinting at with St. Francis those centuries ago.

I think what I’ve been missing for so long, what the Church may have been missing for a while, is the great sweetness that comes from beautiful acts of self sacrifice. It’s one of God’s paradoxes to be sure. On those rare occasions when we lay down our own desire for no other reason than our love for God or one of His creatures, the unexpected immeasurable delight that follows takes our breathe away.

I’m not sure why I’m so amazed by this. After all, sacrifice is death, pure and simple. With each little death we encounter, maybe we’re given bits of the resurrected life in return.

How’s that for “your best life now?”

In Search of God

I went in search of God.

My heart was nearly empty and my soul was parched. I knew that I needed something; I even knew what it was I needed. That is, I knew whom I needed. I needed God.

He had seemed so far away. My prayers were anemic, my infrequent quiet time lonely and strained. So I took off in search of the One who could fill the barren places.

I got distracted. I so easily get distracted, it seems. I’m adequate at filling in the time with good works and godly pursuits. I’m even better at filling it in with Kaye-centered activities. But I didn’t need more of me. I needed God.

I woke up this morning with a burning desire. I wanted to go hiking. I wanted to head out to Burgess Falls. I didn’t even realize why at the time. I just knew I wanted to go.

Walking along the trail, my feet were suddenly spurred on by a growing sense of anticipation. Each step brought me closer to the belly of the falls, where I knew the cacophony in my heart would be silenced by the roaring waters. I knew He was waiting for me there. And I knew how desperately I needed Him.

I don’t know why it took going to that place to hear the voice of God again. Maybe I get too caught up in the domestic things of life. Maybe my tunnel vision somehow works on my ears as well as my eyes. Maybe as the rocks and trees sing His praises, the Songwriter’s anthem is more discernible to me.

I’m grateful that He is more faithful than I am. I’m ashamed of my pitiful attempts at righteousness and my shabby treatment of the Giver of every good thing that has ever come my way. The One I call Lord is too often given anything but lordship over my life. Sometimes I find it truly incomprehensible that He would desire any kind of a relationship with me.

“For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do – this I keep on doing….What a wretched one I am! “

As I sat near the misty spray of the falls, I poured out all the junk that had been eating at my heart. I couldn’t sort it out on my own; I’d been trying that for some time now. My prayer had no rhyme or reason, no eloquent words. I had very little to offer up on behalf of anyone else. My own self-inflicted gangrenous wounds needed too much attention. But as I talked, peace came. As answers slowly formulated in my mind, I heard a voice echoing my own. As I murmured in the first person, the voice simultaneously reiterated the thoughts in third person. My tongue said, “This isn’t why I’m here.” The Other Tongue confirmed in unison, “This isn’t why you’re here.” The Other Tongue, the One who originally put the thoughts in my head, validated what He had already taught me years ago. I had just lost sight of it for a while. Sometimes I’m like a child who sticks her fingers in her ears so she can stomp her feet and insist she cannot hear.

Eventually I headed back up the trail. I stopped at the middle falls and felt drawn toward the edge. The wind seemed to whisper a message from its Maker, “Get back here, I’m not finished with you yet.” So I sat on the rocks, watching the water ripple and tumble out of sight. He continued, “I love you; I’ve always loved you. But that doesn’t mean you get a free pass. There are consequences to selfish living. And there are things I expect from one who wears My name. Think on these things.”

I saw two snakes today. Maybe they were emissaries cautioning me about the deadly perils of wandering from the path. There is only one Way, and it is a narrow one. When Jesus talked about the road to destruction being broad maybe he was talking about more than hell. Maybe he was also talking to those of us who stumble and fall as we walk out this discipleship thing; as we get sidetracked or preoccupied with trivialities and vanities; as we choose the lesser way. Heaven may still be ours, but destructive forces still leave scars. Choosing life may be more than choosing heaven. Maybe it’s also choosing the good here and now; comfort in the face of suffering, solace during difficulties, guidance through tribulation, joy and peace in both the simple and profound. I want to choose the narrow way. I want to walk in the steps of the true Pathfinder.

For those of you who know what I’m talking about, who everyday find yourself again making stupid mistakes and desperately wanting to be different, take heart. Because when Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” He was talking about you. He was basically saying, “Blessed are the desperate, because they know in their poverty, that there is no other Source. There is no pretense, no smug self-satisfaction among them.” Hold on in your desperation and know that He is holding on to you.

One final thought about my trip into the woods of revelation. As I started to walk away I looked back across the falls to the other side of the river. From atop one of the cliffs, a tree hung upside down. It was dangling over the side, precariously holding on by its roots. I laughed aloud, feeling an affinity with that pathetic timber. Sometimes all I can do is hold on. And sometimes, I think that’s enough.

I want to be real

I’m working with a small group of teenagers. I asked the question the other day, “What are the characteristics of a religious person?” I got the response I had expected, “They go to church, they put money in the collection plate, they don’t cuss, etc.” Even as they were answering, however, they knew where we were going with it. You see, we’d been looking at the book of James. He defines pure and undefiled religion as looking after orphans and widows in their distress and keeping oneself from being polluted by the world. When was the last time anyone asked me how I was doing in the care of orphans category?

I want to be real.

I want to be concerned with the things that matter.

There seems to be an abundance of superficiality these days. It manifests itself in the way we spend our time and in the things we obsess over. Is my energy spent debating the color of new carpeting for a church building or am I over at a friend’s house as she helping with her sick children? Do I need to peruse the shelves at Books A Million one more time for the latest Christian bestseller, or should I be helping a young man study for his GED? Do I need to hear another sermon on the divorce/remarriage issue, or do I get down on my knees on behalf of those hurting from not only broken relationships but also from ostracism from Christ followers?

God help me, I want to be real.

The other day I watched Happy Feet with Chad, my autistic 19 year old. I know some say that this movie is supposed to be an endorsement of the homosexual lifestyle, but I don’t see it. After all, the main character has an object of desire, and she certainly isn’t male. Anyway, I loved the evening spent with Chad. He chattered through the whole movie, totally enjoying this peculiar penguin and his dancing escapades. That’s because my own little odd bird also has a dancing heart. On occasion, he shares that heart with me.

This was a night that mattered.

In a class one night, our preacher remarked that one of the things He loves about God is that He seems to turn everything upside down. He used the procession that followed Jesus into Jerusalem His last week as an example. The crowd was made up of prostitutes and tax collectors and the lame. You know, those that the rest of us tend to turn away from. I loved his comments and I thought to myself, where do I fit in that crowd? Am I one of the sinners following Jesus, or am I one of the Pharisees shaking my head in disapproval? Way too often I look in the mirror and see the phylacteries hanging from my wrists.

Pharisee or sinner, we’re all in need of God’s grace. Lord, help me to be real.

I continued to think about that procession. Thinking about my own life, I was a little disgusted. There are very few prostitutes in my life. I tend to hang out more with a different sort. Don’t get me wrong, I need virtuous women in my life; they inspire me and hold me accountable. But can I really be a disciple of His, if I’m uncomfortable getting my hands dirty? Am I splashing in mud puddles while Christ is calling me to dive into something much wilder?

I want a life that matters. I want to be real.

Pentecost

I know it's already past (May 27th this year), but I've been thinking about it and meant to write about it earlier.

I love the Biblical festivals. They all find fulfillment in Christ, and it's like finding the pearl of great value, for which one sells all he has. Christ is proclaimed and foretold in every Old Testament book and I love finding His story in places I had previously missed it.

I am part of a church tradition that doesn't emphasize the Biblical feasts and festivals. I long to celebrate these with other Christians, but until then, I make it a little mission to inform those around me of the significance of the days. So when Pentecost came this year, I asked the women of the Sunday morning class I teach, "What was the most important day in the history of the world?" Eventually, they tracked with me and said they thought the day Jesus came to the planet. The second most important? His resurrection. Okay, how about the third? We got to Pentecost. And that's when I told them that that Sunday morning WAS Pentecost. The Spirit who moved so powerfully almost 2000 years ago is still active in the lives of Christians.

Every year on Pentecost I pray for revival. I pray that the Spirit will come in power into our churches and do a mighty work. I pray for hearts that will respond to Him. I pray for ears that will hear. (My own included.)

This year was no different. I prayed all through the morning assembly. Later, I was back for the evening assembly, and I continued that prayer. In the morning, we are a large group, and we meet in the CLC (Christain Living Center, aka the gym). In the evening, there aren't as many we so meet in the auditorium, which is older, more beautiful and has better acoustics.

I always love the auditorium because the singing is better. But Pentecost Sunday it was absolutely beautiful. As I sang and listened to the sweet voices around me, I realized that the Spirit was there, continuing to do His work. A couple of people later commented on the singing that day. God and I know what's up. It was Pentecost.

Just think, if we all humbled ourselves, if we truly submitted our lives to the One we call Lord, if we prayed fervently for revival, if we expected the Spirit...can you imagine how different the world would be?

Living Missionally

I've been thinking about my life here in Tennessee. I have a great church, great work (both volunteer and paid), and a great family. But there's something that seems to be missing.

I don't mean I'm feeling unfulfilled or anything like that. I'm just looking over my day and my interactions. It seems that much of what I do revolves around fellow Christians. Much of my time is spent with people I worship with regularly, or with others from different faith backgrounds and places. There's fellowship and discipleship, encouragement and support. And all that is very good. But where are the non-believers?

How does one live missionally? Especially in the South? Most people here claim some kind of faith. Some are spiritual giants and I am so thankful that God has brought them into my life. There are others whose faith is very underdeveloped. But at any rate, churches generally are full on Sunday mornings. Going out into the highways and byways sharing your faith, gets you the response, "Oh yes, I know Jesus. He's a great friend of mine. I've got my name on a pew and I try to find some spare change to put in the collection tray every Sunday. I'm not nearly as mean as my neighbor, so hopefully my ongoing little indiscretion with the his wife won't keep me out of heaven."

What's the mission? To bring Christ to a people who don't know Him? But they already claim to. As they live in fear of death because they're just not sure they've been "good enough." Or to try to grow in faith and obedience along with these around me?

I'm just thinking aloud. I'm in an odd place. And I'm not quite sure how to move forward. But maybe it's not about me moving forward anyway. Maybe it's more about me looking to Christ and following His steps. Maybe I'll leave the moving forward to Him.

He Loves Me

The other day someone at church asked what is the greatest example in Scripture of Jesus’ compassion. The correct answer, the one the speaker was looking for, was His sacrifice on Calvary. Assuredly. This is not, however, what first came to my mind. I love so many things about Christ. One of them is His attention to detail, another is His awareness of the disenfranchised. I also appreciate His ability to respond to the most desperate need of an individual. There is a story that encompasses all of this.

In the eighth chapter of Matthew, a man with leprosy humbly knelt before Jesus. He stated simply, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.” Jesus was willing. His desire to heal this man is heartwarming. The man’s faith in Christ is encouraging to us who struggle at times. But what catches my attention is Jesus’ physical response. He could have just said, “I am willing. Be clean!” In fact, these were His words. But look closely. Here was a man who had been shunned by his community. If he met someone on the road, he had to pass on the opposite side, exclaiming, “Unclean, unclean.” How long do you suppose it had been since anyone had really looked at him? Even more heartbreaking, how long do you suppose it had been since anyone had touched him? But this is exactly what God-With-Us did. Scripture tells us that He reached out and touched the man. This is not the act of an impersonal God. This is Compassion in Flesh.

One day, while we were still in Germany, I was walking along one of the alpine trails. The path had climbed uphill, and as I rounded the bend I could see the Loisach River meandering below. The sun brightened the sky above; the mountains framed the horizon. The blue of the water contrasted with the soft green of the bank on which a little Bavarian cottage sat. Nearby a small black goat ambled leisurely, the bell around his neck tinkling as he nibbled clumps of grass. This river had been flowing from the melting snow for eons, through the almost ageless mountains. So I was not the first to have my breath taken away by the panoramic view spread out in front of me. I marveled at the incredible goodness of a God toward His creatures, that He so extravagantly delights our senses for no other reason than to give us joy. I thought to myself, “How very much He loves us.”

But as I stood there, suddenly I knew it was more than just “us” that He loved. It’s not only mankind in general that He pursues and woos, and for whom He opens the floodgates of blessings. I realized, that day on the mountain, that if I were the only person on earth, God would still have created that view. If He loves mankind enough to do that, He loves me enough to do it. On a cerebral level I knew that Christ loved me, individually, enough to die for me. But that moment I understood His love in a deeper, more personal way. That spot became my own, a testament to the bountiful nature of God’s lavish love for me, Kaye Pepin. He became God-With-Me.

Coming down the mountain, I was almost embarrassed to share my thoughts with anyone. They seemed somewhat narcissistic. But what I discovered was that the epiphany I’d had opened my heart to others in a way I had not anticipated. For if God loved me that way, He also loved my prickly neighbor that way, too. (For she was no more cantankerous than I, truth be told.) How could I, one who claimed to wear His name, not love her as well?

During this time, I stumbled across a verse that became increasingly more important to me. “Therefore I endure everything for the sake of the elect, that they too may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus, with eternal glory.” (2 Tim. 2:10) Those elect, who have not yet obtained salvation, who are they? I believe they are those who in the days ahead will come to know Christ. I have many unbelievers in my life that I love desperately. What would I be willing to endure if I knew the result would be salvation for them? Anything.

I look at suffering differently now. I know that too many times my hardships are a direct result of foolish decisions on my part. I also know that God is using all kinds of trials to grow me into the person He wants me to be. And I know that every once in a while, one may come that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with someone else that The Lover cares for as much as He cares for me. I don’t relish any of them and I am usually impatient and whiny about them. But my head knows better. Gradually my heart is responding better. May I too be like my Lord, compassion in the flesh. Maybe one day a trial of mine will help carve a riverbed through a mountain pass, giving comfort to a wandering soul and glorifying the One who made it all.

Maundy Thursday

Have you heard of the Talpiot tomb? It's the one that has caused some hoopla in the media and the one Discovery Channel did a special on. You know, the one Jesus was supposedly buried in. Well, I'm not writing to debate the possibility of this, but to relay a discussion I recently had.

I was talking with a little girl the other day. Her parents are believers. She is home schooled (like my own children), so any ideas she has formulated aren't the result of influences in public school. She told me that they had found the tomb that Jesus was buried in. I didn't really want to get into this discussion with her, since I was tutoring her in reading, not theology. But she was insistent. She said that they found His bones and everything. At that point I asked her if she believes that Jesus was resurrected. She nodded her head. I told her, then the bones couldn't be His; His tomb was empty. She said that maybe he was resurrected as a ghost. We talked about the discussion Christ had with Thomas, and how He invited His disciple to put his hand into his Master's side. This was a fleshly body.

So that was that. But what saddened me was that I think this child must have heard about the tomb from her parents. (She really isn't old enough to glean much from the internet or the news. Nor is it a likely topic with playmates...the few that she has given the somewhat isolated area that she lives in). My question is, how many professed Christians entertain the idea that maybe this is Christ's tomb? And do they understand what this means to their faith?

If those bones are His, then He is dead. It's as simple as that.

But those bones are not His. His borrowed tomb is empty.

Today marks the day the early disciples' world began to fall apart. They celebrated the Passover together with Jesus, only to learn that one of them would betray Him. After a long discussion with them and prayers and encouragement, they saw the result of His anguish in the garden. They were with Him as He was bound and taken. Their hope for the restoration of Israel began to quickly crumble.

But in a few days, they would learn first hand that His borrowed tomb is empty. And they, with the the filling of the Spirit, would be a force that Satan, with all his power, had not the strength to bring down.