bonhoeffer on "cheap grace"

I've been reading a lot of Dietrich Bonhoeffer lately, and I find his thoughts about "cheap grace" to be both timely and much-needed in the church today. It's popular right now to talk about our "freedom in Christ," but so often that phrase is merely a convenient smoke screen behind which people hide so that they can indulge in their secret (or not-so-secret) sin. How we need to get back to one central question: Will this please the heart of God? After all, we are not our own, but were bought with a price. And as we read in Romans 14, no freedom is greater than love for our brother. If what we're doing will displease God, misrepresent Him, or cause a brother to stumble, it needs to go. But enough from me. :) Here's Dietrich:

"Luther always looked upon grace as the answer to a sum, an answer which had been arrived at by God, not by man. But his followers then changed the 'answer' into the data for a calculation of their own. That was the root of the trouble. If grace is God's gift of Christian life, then we cannot for a moment dispense with following Christ. But if grace becomes how I choose to live my Christian life, it means that I set out to live the Christian life in the world with all my sins justified beforehand. I can go and sin as much as I like, and rely on this 'grace' to forgive me, for the world after all is justified in principle by grace."

"The Christian life now means nothing more than living in the world and in being no different from the world; it means, in fact, being prohibited for the sake of grace from being different from the world."

"We have gathered like eagles around the carcass of cheap grace, and there we have drunk the poison that has killed the life of following Christ."

"What happened to all those warnings of Luther against preaching the gospel in such a way as to make people feel secure in their ungodly living? Was there ever a more terrible or disastrous instance of the Christianizing of the world than this? What are those three thousand Saxons put to death by Charlemagne compared to the millions of spiritual corpses in our country today?"

"This cheap grace has been no less disastrous to our personal spiritual lives. Instead of opening up the way to Christ, it has closed it. Instead of calling us to follow Christ, it has hardened us in our disobedience. Perhaps we had once heard the gracious call to follow Him and had even taken the first few steps along the path of discipleship, only to find ourselves confronted by the word of cheap grace. Was that not merciless and hard? The only effect that such a word could have on us was to bar our way to progress, to seduce us to the mediocre level of the world.

"Deceived and weakened, men felt that they were strong now that they were in possession of this cheap grace--whereas in fact they had lost the power to live the life of discipleship and obedience. The word of cheap grace has been the ruin of more Christians than any commandment of works."

"To follow in His steps is something beyond defining. It gives us no intelligible program for a way of life, no goal or ideal to strive after. The disciple simply burns his boats and goes ahead. The old life is left behind, completely surrendered. Discipleship means Jesus Christ and Him alone ... When we are called to follow Christ, we are summoned to an exclusive attachment to His person. The grace of His call bursts all the bonds of legalism."

~Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship

cling

Last year, I thought I'd figure out how to make a movie on my Mac. This was the result.

Songs by Brett Williams and Paul Baloche.

dearest friend

O sacred Head
now wounded,
with grief and shame
weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, thine only crown:
how pale thou art
with anguish,
with sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
which once
was bright as morn!

What thou, my Lord,
has suffered
was all for sinners' gain;
mine,
mine was the transgression,
but thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Savior!
'Tis I deserve thy place;
look on me with thy favor,
vouchsafe to me thy grace.

What language shall I borrow
to thank thee, dearest friend,
for this thy dying sorrow,
thy pity without end?

O make me thine forever;
and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
outlive my love for thee.

lovely monday

After the hubbub of Sunday, filled with a lot of talking and laughing and praying, a lot of gearing up and catching up and meeting and greeting, we spend Monday mornings in the quietest ways we can find.

Today, we're keeping an eye on the wood stove.

Dave watches from the couch where, at 10:18, he sits still clad in his black and gray plaid robe. I'm in the low-to-the-ground legless rocker scooched right up next to the fire. My robe is green, and I intend to stay in it as long as possible.

Fernando Ortega sings in the background, a soothing accompaniment to our laziness. We hum along here and there. At other points, his words blend in with the Psalms I'm reading. When his "Give Me Jesus" begins, I leave off reading and let him voice my prayer.

Give me Jesus
Give me Jesus
You can have all this world
But give me Jesus

More coffee is poured. Another moss-cloaked log joins the pulsing embers in the stove. We talk briefly about putting on real clothes and taking a walk in the mist, but those murmurs die away quickly. Why walk when there are more words to read, more music to hear?

Fernando's songs give way to Glory Revealed. And song number two, as it always does, makes me lean back in wonder and close my eyes. I'm aware in an all-over-again way that every blessing in my life--this lovely Monday, this man, this warmth, my cleansing and healing and hope--has come to me because of the wounding of One.

Give me Jesus.

rescue me

I saw the first of these signs in Scotland, I believe, in an area where there was a lot of road construction going on. Apparently, if you find yourself stranded within these random pockets of rescue, all you have to do is wait and someone will come along to "recover you." It struck me then, and I couldn't shake the thought. So when the same signs began popping up on the road somewhere between York and London, I had to take a picture.

"Free recovery ... Await rescue." Has ever the gospel been expressed so simply, so succinctly?

I'm waiting for You, Jesus. Please come quickly.
* * * 
For the reward of sin is death; but what God freely gives is eternal life in Jesus Christ our Lord ~Romans 6:23 BBE

Let not your heart be troubled: have faith in God and have faith in me. In my Father's house are rooms enough; if it was not so, would I have said that I am going to make ready a place for you? And if I go and make ready a place for you, I will come back again and will take you to be with me, so that you may be where I am. ~John 14:1-3 BBE

... in the twinkling of an eye ... ~1 Corinthians 15:52

restored

I had a bout of food poisoning over the last few days. So when I found this post from a few years back, it seemed a timely offering. Today, I'm restored ... and grateful.

I am back among the land of the breathing.

This morning, I opened my eyes and realized two things: one, I had slept through the night without a single coughing fit, and two, I could smell the rain-washed air drifting through our bedroom window. No more congestion, no more sore throat, no more rattling cough.

It's funny how just three or four days of discomfort can make you appreciate normalcy. I ran through the house sniffing that lovely smell and even went outside for a long moment, just because the scent of morning no longer eluded me. Every intake is pure delight. Last week I wouldn't have even noticed.

I've often thought about the people in first century Israel and what it was like for them when ailment struck. Blindness, flesh-eating disease, incessant bleeding, insanity--if those conditions stump our modern-day experts, imagine the helplessness you'd feel two thousand years ago when a diagnosis of that sort landed in your lap. Your only hope would be prayer.

But for a few, a different sort of Hope walked their way. A man blind from birth encountered that hope one ordinary day. He heard the voice first, then felt hands rubbing mud on his useless eyes. The voice told him to go and wash in the pool of Siloam--and he did. He felt his way down the hillside, searched with his foot until his toe touched wetness, bent down and scooped a handful of water toward his eyes. And for the first time in his life, the man saw a flicker of light ... and then a ripple of watery motion ... and then his own reflection. He looked down in that water and saw the face of a once helpless, hopeless man who had been both helped and filled with hope by the God who loved him.

Ten lepers found healing one day when Hope walked past them on the road to Jerusalem. They knew, somehow, who He was. "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!" They needed that mercy. Since the first tell-tale spot had appeared on each of their bodies, they'd made their home together wandering the hills, banished from all other human contact. Though occasionally a loved one ventured to within a hundred feet or so and lifted a hand or a voice in greeting, those glimpses only served to remind these lepers how long it had been since they'd kissed their spouse or held their children. And emotional turmoil aside, their physical condition was gruesome. Fingers rotted off. Noses disintegrated. Feet melted away to bone. Sores grew and covered their bodies. The only hope for these ten was the hope of death--until the day He walked among them.

He could have transferred healing through touch. He'd done it that way before. But maybe to remind those ten, and all the rest of us, that in the beginning He created the world with nothing but a word, this time He healed with His voice. "Go, show yourselves to the priest," was all He said. But when they did as He said, when they turned and began walking in obedience, it happened. I wonder what they noticed first. Was it the fingers that grew from their stubs? Was it the fact that they no longer walked on bone, but on fully formed feet? Or was it the ears, the noses, the beautiful restored faces of each other that first tipped them to the truth--that they'd been healed with a word from God?

A woman who had bled for twelve years found the courage to go against convention, show herself in a crowd, and touch, briefly, the hem of Jesus' garment. Power flowed from Him to her and stopped her bleeding on the spot. With no more interaction than that, the woman was restored. Hope healed her--then turned, smiled, and called her "Daughter."

And my favorite of all: the crazed, demon-possessed cave-dweller. I stood on a hill across from that cave this last October above the shores of Galilee and heard the story again. I heard about the man of the tombs, the untamable madman who had broken every shackle men could put upon him, but who couldn't break the chains of his hopelessness. Isolated in the cave, with nothing for company but a legion of demons, this man too woke every day waiting for death. But on a very ordinary day, God brought the key that would release him forever from his chains. With a word, Jesus emptied the man of his demons, filled him with hope, and restored both his sanity and his dignity. And the man was so spilling-over-grateful, he begged Jesus to go with Him. But Jesus sent the man home to his friends.

I have often wondered what that homecoming--what all those homecomings were like. "I'm home," I hear in my imaginings. "I've been healed!" And I see the faces of loved ones as they behold and then embrace the truth: their lost one is restored.

There's nothing new under the sun. The hopeless still walk among us. And God hasn't changed. He's as willing today to restore as He was two thousand years ago. But something else that hasn't changed is that people want a selective part of God, but not all of Him. They want the miracles, but not the relationship. They want the blessings, but not the obedience. They want the hope of heaven, but they don't want God to intrude on their lives here on earth.

If you're in dire straights, God will hear your prayers. If you feel despairing or broken, the healing you need is as near as a whispered prayer. And His name is Jesus. But know this: whatever situation you want out of, whatever healing you need, the fix you find will be only temporary. The blind man? He died eventually. So did the lepers. So did the bleeding woman. So did the man of the tombs. They enjoyed their healing for a time and had stories to share with all who would listen, but in the end, their life here was a brief, flitting appearance. So is mine. So is yours.

Don't ask God to solve your temporary problems and ignore the eternal healing He's holding out to you. He wants to give you a hope that lasts forever.

And this is the testimony: that God has given us eternal life, and this life is in His Son. He who has the Son has life; he who does not have the Son of God does not have life. 1 John 5:11-12 NKJV



Bob Bennett, singer and songwriter--and one of my all-time favorites.

full consent

I've returned to this poem again and again, in those sunless hours when all I need to take one more step is a reminder of the One I'm walking toward.

For You, Jesus, I'll take the barren days and rocky steps. I'll be misunderstood or betrayed or abandoned, if that means the fellowship of Your suffering. For You, Savior, I'll keep walking.

The Gift

I heard today
Of a decrepit native woman
Who walked mile after mile
Under the blistering sun
To bring a small gift of embroidery
To the missionary she deeply loved.
Hour after hour she trudged
Over rough, rugged roads
Clutching tightly her small gift.
Her weary body sagged
Her vision blurred
Her bare feet bled from the jagged rocks.

Grateful but overwhelmed,
The missionary wept.
The trembling old woman spoke softly:
"Please understand.
The walk is part of the gift."

My Lord
My commitment to You is for life.
I give myself to You unreservedly
To do with me as You please.
But may I not forget
That the tears, the fears
The strain and the pain
The sunless days
The starless nights
Are all part of the whole.
In my total commitment
I give full consent:
The walk is part of the gift.

~Ruth Harms Calkin
Photo taken by Elaina Scougale on Mount Arbel, Israel, overlooking the Sea of Galilee

crazy

What do you do when you're eighteen and crazy about a girl who lives 655 miles away?

First, you talk your Volvo-owning friend into taking a road trip. Then you sell your X Box and your big screen TV (the one you just traded tires and rims for) to another friend for $400. Then you toss a hastily packed bag in the back of the Volvo, ask your parents to pray for you, and hit the road.

I prayed. I asked God to put a giant bubble around my son and send some road-trip angels along for the ride. And I asked that the girl I've never met would receive him kindly.

Zac called me a few minutes ago. "How's it going?" I asked. Those few words were a far cry from what I most wanted to ask. Are you tired? Have you slept yet? Are you guys keeping your eyes on the road? Any sign of angels?

"Well," he began, "it's been rough so far." He then launched into a play-by-play. "We come around a corner early this morning and find a deer carcass strewn all over the road."

"Did you hit it?"

"Just a piece. Then we run into a blizzard ... in California!" Clearly, he holds little memory of the unit study we did on the Donner Party back when he was a homeschooled seventh grader.

"To make matters worse, Theron's right turn signal won't go off, his windshield wiper is stuck in one speed, and his electrical system is going haywire."

I should be alarmed, but I can't find it in me. Instead, what I'm thinking is that Zac will describe this adventure to his children one day.

"We're so hungry, Mom. And we agreed we were only going to eat off the dollar menu. But then we got to talking about how good Subway would be, so we decided to treat ourselves. We're hungry now ... but it's only 8:30--Subway won't be open." He sighs.

"You'll find something soon, honey."

He tells me again to pray. I tell him I haven't stopped. We swap "I love you's." And when I hang up, I think about the girl in Sacramento who has no idea of what my son has sacrificed for her. She doesn't know he's coming. I wonder what she'll think when he knocks on her door, and wonder what he'll find her doing.

And then I think how familiar this all is.

Again, the kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid; and for joy over it he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field ..."

Therefore you also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect."

~ Matthew 13:44; Luke 12:40

rise

I know what I'm supposed to be doing right now. And I'll get to it. I'll pull my eyes from those ceiling beams, and the sunlight that has spread like warm buttercream over that tiny triangle of wall near the window. I'll open a document and switch to something mindless, an instrumental playlist that will stay politely in the background of my thoughts--so unlike this praise song that has my heart drifting toward heaven.

This song is my song right now. For weeks--maybe months now--it's the song I keep returning to, again and over again, when I miss God and want to tug on His sleeve. Paul Baloche has put it all to music for me. And when I hear it, I ache. It's the ache of missing the one you love the most. My longing fills this library, and while the people here are wandering past one another with heads down or heads in books or heads scanning the spines of all these endless rows of endless volumes, I want to look up. I want my praise to rise, and keep rising ... till it finds its way home.

As morning dawns and evening fades
You inspire songs of praise
That rise from earth
To touch Your heart
And glorify Your name

Your name is a strong and mighty tower
Your name is a shelter like no other
Your name
Let the nations sing it louder
'Cause nothing has the power to save
But Your name

Jesus in Your name we pray
Come and fill our hearts today
Lord, give us strength to live for You
And glorify Your name

Your name is a strong and mighty tower
Your name is a shelter like no other
Your name
Let the nations sign it louder
'Cause nothing has the power to save
But Your name

Jesus, Jesus
Your name ... Jesus
Give me strength for another day
There's healing in Your name
Salvation in Your name
Oh, there's comfort in Your name
There is joy in Your name
Tender mercies in Your name
There's no other name
No other name
Jesus

isaiah 53

If Jesus had not left the beauty of heaven, where He was adored and worshiped as God, and entered humanity through a dark, obscure cave;

if He had not endured betrayal by the ones He loved most,
and stood silent while mere humans plucked out His beard
and spat on His face,
and struck,
and whipped,
and accused,
and mocked Him;

if He had not lifted and carried the rough instrument of His death,
and laid His hands against the cross beam,
and accepted nails into His flesh;

if He had not hung there
with His blood dripping down into the sand below,
and His prayers of forgiveness ascending to His Father above,

then we never would have received the comfort of Isaiah 54, or the promises of Isaiah 55.

Instead, we would have inherited exactly what we deserve:

grief
fear
shame
regret
hunger
thirst
wrath
terror
judgment
death.

But Jesus did come.

The Trade (written and sung by Brett Williams); I Cling to the Cross (written and sung by Paul Baloche)

longing

Cora didn't want to go to Israel at first. She didn't quite see what all the fuss was about. I told her, "Cora, Chris is going ... and if he goes without you, you're going to miss out on sharing something wonderful. He'll try, but he'll never be able to fully describe what it means to him." In the end, she relented, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it.

And then it was. Somewhere between, "All right. I'll go." and the morning we piled our bags in the church van and headed to Sea Tac airport, Cora's heart began to burn for a land she'd never seen. Her excitement grew during the trip from Seattle to Atlanta, and during the short layover there, and all through the long flight to Tel Aviv. In the darkest hour of our flight, when our legs ached from inactivity and we found ourselves rising and stretching and congregating back in the steward's section (where we met a believing, Messianic attendant named Marwin), Cora's desire fought its way past her exhaustion and shone in her eyes.

She told me later that the tears first came when she saw on the screen that we'd crossed the Mediterranean, and she looked out her window and caught her first glimpse of the Holy Land.

She didn't stop there. Cora cried at nearly every stop along our trip. She became my blessing. My friend, who had been so reluctant, so unconvinced, so complacent about this journey, now drew it in as though it were breath.

Sometimes, now, Cora and I will look at each other across the room, and smile. And I can see in her eyes that she's thinking of Israel. She can see I'm right there with her.

I long for that land. As our friend, Dave Perkins, says, "Once you get that sand in your sandals, you can never get it out." I can feel the sand even now, and I'm counting the days until our next trip.

I've a longing for another place, too. In unlooked-for moments, my heart responds to a sound my ears miss. I turn and look up past the clouds, and I know where I belong. And someday, I'll leave this place, where all is weight and worry and regret. Someday, I'll cross that wide sea and catch my first glimpse of the One I long for most. And though I've read there's no crying there, I've a feeling that when I hold those hands for the first time and I see for myself the love written in His wounds, I'll wash them in my tears.

happy fresh start

As part of my own fresh start, I've been busy trying to not be busy. Know what I mean? Instead of sitting in this chair glued to the internet for hours every day, I've been knitting while Dave and I talk, or taking long walks on the trail with him to work off a breakfast of biscuits and gravy, or cooking up a batch of powdered-sugar dusted rosettes for Zac. Lest you think I forgot Tera, she's been in Winthrop since Friday tubing and cross-country skiing with Aunt Tarri and Uncle Todd.

In the spirit of slowing down, instead of posting something new today, here's a link to my column in this month's Christian Women Online. In case you didn't catch it the first time around, it's the testimony I posted this time last year.

One other thing: if you haven't checked out MyChurch.com yet, you might want to take a peek. My address is: www.mychurch.org/shannon. Joining is simple--and it's already turning out to be a fun way to connect with people in your own church as well as new people who happen upon your site.

I pray your new year is full of new opportunities, new insight, new beginnings. And I pray you remember Jesus every step along the way.

casting crowns

A few weeks ago, when Dave was getting ready to take a run to the dump, we tackled a pile of boxes which had been stored in a covered area along with our hay. Spying one dilapidated box, I told Dave, "I think those are the last of Cindy's things." A woman from church and her two children had lived in our travel trailer a few years ago, and she'd left a couple of boxes full of things she no longer wanted. The shoes on the top of that box were hers--so I almost suggested that Dave just toss the whole box. But at the last minute, I said, "Maybe I should take a quick peek first." I'm so glad I did. Inside that box were old pictures, old letters, and a diary that had belonged to my mother when she was just a teenager. I don't know how Cindy's unwanted shoes found themselves on top of such a treasure, but while Dave was driving to the dump, I was sitting on the couch sorting through my memories. I've much to tell about what I found there. But for today, let me tell you about Garrett ...

He was the tallest of my first graders, and probably the one with the best memory. Six-year old Garrett Smith loved two things: dinosaurs and Star Wars. On his first day of first grade--which happened to be my first day on my own as a teacher--Garrett asked me if I'd like to hear the opening lines to the Star Wars movie. He then stood with his head high, legs locked, and hands on his hips, and began the soliloquy he'd memorized from watching the movie: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ..."

He knew the whole thing. And it so delighted me that I made frequent requests for encores throughout the year. "What was that opening line of Star Wars, Garrett?"

Because of the efforts of his mother, Ann, Garrett had an in incredible vocabulary. Whenever he got an idea, he wouldn't say, "How about this?" or "I know! Let's ...." Instead, he'd raise his index finger in the air and say, in his high, six-year old voice, "Mrs. Woodward, I have an EX-cellent suggestion!"

Garrett's face and voice came alive for me when, while sorting through my newly rescued pile of letters and photographs, I came upon a lavender, dinosaur-stamped envelope. "Mrs. Woodward" was written across the center in distinctive first-grade handwriting.

Inside, I found two math pages. The first question on the first page showed six milk cartons lined up next to the number "6" and below, three milk cartons lined to the right of the number "3." Big as life, Garrett had written "9" on the line beneath the problem--just like I'd taught him. He knew the next answer, too--"1 + 7 = 8," and all the ones that followed. In fact, he'd received 100% on this paper. On top of the front side, I'd drawn a smiley face and written Great! On the flip side, I'd written Wow! Page two sported a colorful gold fish looking up at Garrett's answers with bulbous, astonished eyes. Garrett had taken the time, on this picture, to color all his answers with blue, green or yellow crayon. Again, all his answers on this paper were correct. For his efforts, I'd given him a Yipee! on on side, and the coveted Super Duper! on the other.

Garrett had received his prize ... and for whatever reason, he wanted to give it back to me. I don't recall the conversation that occurred when Garrett handed that lavender envelope to me and I opened it to find his two perfect math papers. But I'm fairly certain I didn't make the connection I do today. Today, it seems pretty clear to me that Garrett was doing what I'll do when I reach the end of my life and face the One who gave it to me.

He was casting crowns.

The twenty-four Elders fell down before him and worshiped him, the Eternal Living One, and cast their crowns before the throne, singing, "O Lord, you are worthy to receive the glory and the honor and the power ...'" --Rev 4:10-11 (TLB)

on hens and pharisees

We had another rescue this week.

And again, it was the chirping that drew me to the chicken coop. I'd been out behind the greenhouse weeding between the cosmos and sweet peas when I heard that little distress call. At first, when I rounded the greenhouse and the chicken yard came into view, I thought maybe I'd been mistaken. There was a chick, all right, but it looked safe enough standing there with its mother. But right then the baby tried to get underneath the hen, and I saw a peck.

You don't expect that from mother hens. They're supposed to be the protectors, the shielders, the ones who huddle over those tiny bodies and keep them safe from all harm. I've seen hens do that to each other--focus in on a weak or sick chicken and peck it to death--and it always infuriates me. But I'd never seen a hen do that to a baby chick. Could I have been wrong? Was she, perhaps, simply trying the help the chick get underneath her?

The chick took a few wobbly steps backwards and looked up at the hen. Just as it was dawning on me that the odd discoloration on the side of its little head was blood, it stepped forward to try again to burrow beneath the hen's wing ... and she reached down and gave it another vicious peck against the head.

Right then and there, I understood the fury that drove Jesus to overturn the money tables in the temple. He saw His people walking long miles with their sacrifices and mounting the steps to the temple, only to hesitate as they approached the door. Their need to worship brought them to that door, but it was their trepidation about what awaited them that slowed their steps. The Pharisees--the religious leaders--should have welcomed them in with open arms and made their arrival a time of celebration. Instead, they fleeced the sheep. They pecked at their offerings. "You think that's a worthy dove? I beg to differ. I see a mark there. This one won't do--you'll have to buy an acceptable dove from my friend over there."

The temple should have been a place where sojourners and worshipers were safe. It should have been a place of giving. Instead, it was the abode of thieves, who seemed to take great delight in pecking the defenseless.

If you want to know what the barnyard equivalent to the overturning of the money tables is, it's this: I screamed "Hey!", threw my trough to the ground, raced through the garden and around the side of the chicken yard, yanked open the door to the coop, dropped to my stomach (and I won't describe what I laid on to do so), and reached out the open door and beyond the ramp, scooping up the dazed chick just as the hen was readying herself for another bloody blow.

He didn't protest at the feel of my hand. I think the poor thing was in shock. He let me inspect his head on the walk up to the house, and let me wash both sides with hydrogen peroxide when we got inside. The hen had pecked him so fiercely that his little baby feathers were completely gone on both sides, right down to the skin, and both sides had suffered gaping wounds. I'm sure he would have been gone with another blow or two. After dabbing the cleaned wounds with neosporin, I gave him a sip of water from a teaspoon and called Tera in to help me set up another box. She brought up the heat lamp and enough wood chips for a thick, cushy layer. We filled an orange gelato cup with water and a green gelato cup with a combination of rolled oats, farina and quinoa, and then set the little guy down in the box. Despite the drama of the day, he seemed to like his new surroundings. He walked the four corners, pecked at the wood chips, and stepped in his water. But I didn't want to let him go just yet. And when I reached down to scoop him up again, he hopped right in my hand.

I cupped him, first, making a dark cave. He liked that for a good long time--ten minutes, maybe--and when he finally poked his beak between my fingers to see what was happening outside the cave, I stroked the back of his head with my thumb. He gave a soft, chirpy purr at that, and in short time, just like babies everywhere, his teeny eyelids grew too heavy to hold open. He lowered them halfway, and then I watched them dip, dip again, and close.

It's been almost a week now. His feathers are just starting to grow back in. He eats out of my hand. When he's lonely, he chirps to get my attention, and when I respond and open the door to his room, he quiets down and waits for me to come and get him. He still likes being cupped but what he likes even more is when I hold him up against my cheek and drape my hair over him. It's a substitute for hiding under his mother's wing. Maybe it's a poor substitution, but it's all I have. What that mother failed to do, I will do. He needs it. He has an inborn need to be enfolded in softness.

Much like people.

the real Jesus

Last November, when I had a bit more time for such things, I spent an afternoon visiting some of my favorite blogs and came upon this amazing painting by Forrest Kaiser, which I believe he entitled Christ 2. The power of this portrayal struck me. Clearly, this man suffered.

As it happened, that same afternoon I went out googling to find an emergency substitution for evaporated milk so I could whip up a pumpkin pie. It was a bit early--just weeks before Thanksgiving--but what else do you do when your husband drags himself about the house with a need-pumpkin-pie-now look? You bake.

Not long into my search, I came upon a message board with a lot of survivalist information, including the needed evaporated milk substitution. I copied the recipe and then scanned some of the topics. It dawned on me, after reading just a few, that I'd stumbled on a "white power" site. Appalled, I moved my cursor to the top of the page to click off, but just before I did, I saw a thread entitled, "How many people in here still think Jesus was a Jew?"

I stayed. I clicked. I read. And as the words sunk in, I fumed. The message poster--bent on believing lies and determined to take a handful of the gullible with him--quoted a fake document he would only attribute to "a writer from the third century" which described Jesus as a tall, blue-eyed Fabio twin, with curly blonde hair falling upon his beautiful, broad, Aryan shoulders.

How idiotic.

Jesus was Jewish. Only someone completely determined to ignore history could believe otherwise. Doubtless, his eyes and hair were brown. He likely wasn't a tall man, nor was he handsome. The Bible tells us there was nothing about his appearance that would cause anyone to take a second look at him ... except I imagine onlookers stole second and third and fourth looks as he pulled his bloodied, beaten body down the narrow Via de la Rosa that Friday morning, on the way to his crucifixion.

And speaking of the crucifixion, we need to eliminate all those pictures and statues of Jesus wearing a slightly pokey, but not too uncomfortable crown of dullish thorns, and sporting a pristine, white robe. The thorns dug deeply. The blood flowed freely. And the garment was long gone.

I dug out my notes about the ridiculous Aryan site and Forrest's powerful portrait--and the connection I'd made between the two--because in mid-May, Hollywood will premier yet another soundtrack-cushioned lie. The Da Vinci Code will soon be slinking its way to a theater near you. Before you run out and unload your wallet to sit through this movie, let me remind you of the truth:

--The Bible is not a product of man, but is a God-breathed, Holy Spirit inspired love letter.

--Jesus' followers did not view him as merely a "great prophet." You don't go to your own death because a great teacher is being maligned. They were speared, clubbed, beheaded and crucified because they wouldn't back down from what they knew to be true: God had come to earth in the form of a man, sacrificed himself, and raised himself--for them.

--With all due respect to Da Vinci's artistic talent, he simply wasn't there in the Upper Room. His Last Supper is nothing more than an artist's rendering. Whatever Leonardo may have believed about the partakers of that meal, we can only chalk up to imagination.

--As to Jesus and Mary Magdalene marrying and creating their own blood line? Please. God did not leave the throne of heaven to establish a cozy home for himself on earth. He came for an eternal Bride--the Church.

If you like mystery, if you like the idea of secret codes and hidden meaning, all you have to do is pick up your Bible. It's living. No matter how many times you read it through, your next journey will yield new riches. And the code within--when cracked--will unveil a love that's sure to startle, astound, and woo all those who find it.

Oh, how impatient I am these days, how restless. I find myself scrutinizing signs and scanning the clouds and uttering feverish pleas.

Will the real Jesus please stand up?

rescue me

That Felix.

If he were a human boy, he'd be losing himself on hikes in the mountains, or falling into wells, or ever-working himself into creatively dangerous tight spots. But he's not human. He's a cat.

And so he shadows Dave like a bobcat, following him into the shed and out back to the wood pile, and down to the car that doesn't run anymore. When Dave opens the door and rummages in the glove compartment to find whatever he went looking for, Felix hatches a plan and motions to Mittens to follow his lead. They slip unnoticed into the back seat and press up against the darkness, pretending they've found themselves a cave. It's all great fun for twelve minutes, and then Felix thinks, Rescue me.

It takes Dave four days to narrow his search to that burgandy cave, but it's his hand that opens the door, finally. And after the desperate duo emerge and slurp their fill of water and eat themselves sick, it's Felix who plants himself at Dave's feet and licks a thank you on the hand that saved him.

On another day, he imagines himself a jaguar chasing prey across an African plain, and bounds his little black and white body across our front yard, eyes gleaming with hunt-thrill. When the imaginary prey takes a left at the end of the driveway and shoots up the cedar trunk, Felix follows ... and follows ... and follows, until the mirage disappears and he finds himself to be nothing more than a very lost, very un-jaguarish teenager cat--stuck in a tree. Rescue me, he thinks.

Dave hears. He calls and coaxes and climbs--the ladder, first, and then a dozen tree limbs. Felix is content--purrfectly so, actually--to ride a humble descent in the folds of Dave's jacket. He's content to be carried into the house, and petted, and eased to a carpet spot in front of a mellow fire.

And Dave, I notice, is content to watch the object of his rescue. When he stokes the fire, he strokes the cat. When Felix turns occasionally to check if he's still there, Dave smiles and speaks his name in a tender voice. I watch the encounter, and watch the way Dave's eyes return again and again to that warming black blob on the floor, and I have to wonder.

Was this how you felt, Lord, when you rescued me?

feet

Sometimes, God lets you say something profound--even if only to yourself.

Not ten minutes ago, while peanut-buttering a slice of just-ground, just-baked wheat bread for Tera's lunch (we've gone organic ... but that will have to wait for another post) I stepped on Squishy's toes.

Of course, you don't do something that heinous on purpose. I didn't even know she was there. I'd been standing there at the kitchen counter scraping the last of the cherry jam out of the jar, and stirring the peanut butter to mix it back into a spreadable goo, and thinking about my day and all the must-do things I needed to fit inside twelve hours, when I moved my foot every so slightly, and stepped right on that cat's front paws.

The pain was all hers, but we shared the near-heart attack. She shrieked and ran. I shrieked and dropped my knife, and then burst out with, "Don't sit at my feet ... or you're going to get hurt!"

Isn't that profound? And I wasn't even trying.

It's true. Take it as the word for today. Please don't sit at my feet. Don't sit at anyone's feet, unless that someone happens to be the One who walked out of the tomb. You'll never go wrong sitting at His feet. Never. In fact, all the wisdom you need for life and health and strength can be gleaned from that sacred position--sitting in expectancy, looking up in adoration.

But me? Your best friend? Dr. Phil? Oprah? We're all sinners. We'll all fail you eventually. I can guarantee that each of us will, in turn, step on your toes at some point. The ones you really want to watch out for are the ones who like to gather people at their feet, who like to be the distributors of manna, as though you can't go to the Bread of Life yourself. Steer clear of those disciple-gatherers.

Be Mary. Carve ten minutes from the chaos called today, strip it of "must" and "now" and "hurry," and settle at the feet of the One who'll never fail you; the One who has all the answers; the One who loves you with reckless, irrational, passion.

Go.

Then great multitudes came to Him, having with them the lame, blind, mute, maimed, and many others; and they laid them down at Jesus' feet, and He healed them. --Matt 15:30 (NKJV)

*   *   *
And behold, a woman in the city who was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at the table in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster flask of fragrant oil, and stood at His feet behind Him weeping; and she began to wash His feet with her tears, and wiped them with the hair of her head; and she kissed His feet and anointed them with the fragrant oil. --Luke 7:37-38 (NKJV)

*   *   *
Now as they were traveling along, He entered a certain village; and a woman named Martha welcomed Him into her home. And she had a sister called Mary, who moreover was listening to the Lord's word, seated at His feet.

But Martha was distracted with all her preparations; and she came up to Him, and said, "Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to do all the serving alone? Then tell her to help me."

But the Lord answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and bothered about so many things; but only a few things are necessary, really only one, for Mary has chosen the good part ..." --Luke 10:38-42 (NAS)

making room

This morning, while finishing a book edit, I moved my favorite Christmas decoration aside to make room for my cup of coffee. As I do often, I picked up the jar and shook the straw inside. Then I decided to tell you about it.

Here's an article I wrote for HomeLife magazine about eight years ago.

* * *
I remember–distinctly–how overwhelmed I felt the first time someone suggested an Advent celebration to me.

Four nights. I’d have to set aside four nights during the busiest four weeks of the year. Lighting the candles sounded nice. I liked candles. Prayer was fine. I liked prayer. Sitting around a table asking questions and singing songs–that part I could do without.

“You’d be blessed,” my friend promised.

I didn’t believe her. It sounded like one more activity, one more “have to” in a month already crammed with have to’s. I accepted the paper she handed me, glanced at the suggestions, and thanked her. When she left, I filed the paper in the very back of my filing cabinet.

It probably would have stayed there forever except for a half-hearted prayer I tossed toward God one day soon afterwards.

I’d been out shopping with the masses. Armed with four pounds of toy catalogs and flyers, I elbowed my way through crowds, hissed over parking spaces, stood in lines twenty people deep, and heard enough musical bells and animated Santas to drive a person insane. I spent too much money on things I was certain no one would like or appreciate. Worst of all, on a whim I picked up the newest book by Martha What’s-Her-Name on “How to craft the world’s most memorable Christmas ever using only a glue gun and fresh bay leaves from your own bay tree.” Despite the fact that I didn’t have a bay tree and couldn’t remember when I’d last seen the glue gun, I plopped the book in my cart.

Driving home, I realized that something was way out of whack. My month was as full as it could possibly be. I’d loaded our schedule with every festive event I could find: concerts, parties, cookie exchanges, pageants, tree lighting ceremonies. There wasn’t room for a single thing more. And still I wasn’t happy, or satisfied, or contented. I didn’t feel close to God. I didn’t even like Christmas anymore. In fact, if I could have my way, I would have ripped December right out of my calendar.

I couldn’t pinpoint how it had happened, but somehow Christmas had taken on a life of its own. It drove me, in an endless cycle of haves and wants and musts. I was on the Christmas roller coaster and feeling sick.

“Something has to change,” I said out loud. Not much of a prayer. But God, I’ve learned, can read between the lines and find a prayer hidden in our little outbursts.

I lugged my purchases up to the house and hid them in the bedroom closet. With a cup of tea in hand, I curled up in my favorite chair and opened Martha’s new book. I turned the pages, slowly at first, then more rapidly. One by one I vetoed the projects and recipes. Too big. Too expensive. Too weird. Gold leaf on cookies? Who puts gold leaf on cookies? Who eats gold leaf on cookies?? Most of the projects called for things I’d never owned and probably couldn’t track down if my life depended on it.

Dejected, I tossed the book on the coffee table and wandered outside. Voices drew me to the sheep barn, where I found Dave and Zac, then four, spreading fresh straw.

Dave used the pitchfork, but hands-on Zac was down on his knee scattering straw with his hands.

“How was shopping?” Dave asked.

“Oh, you know. Plastic Santas. Angry people. No parking. Same as always.”

I wasn’t good company. My two men wisely kept working and said nothing. Until Zac, finally, made an announcement.

“That doesn’t feel good,” he said, pulling straw out of his sleeve. “It’s not comfortable on your skin.”

From my perch on a bale of straw, I watched but said nothing.

“Mom?” he pressed.

“What?”

“It doesn’t feel good.”

“Well, then, don’t put it up your sleeve.” Cranky mother.

“Well, it’s just . . . I was thinking. Was Jesus really born in a barn?”

A cave, I thought. It was probably a cave. But I just nodded.

“Why did that happen?”

“They tried to find another place for him to be born, but there just wasn’t room.”

“That’s not good.” Zac shook his head.

He’d heard the Christmas story every Christmas of his young life. I couldn’t understand why this was bothering him now. “It’s just the way it happened,” I said.

“But, Mom,” he said, walking toward me, “feel this.” He laid a handful of straw on my arm and stepped back. “It feels bad.”

I looked at Zac. I looked at the small pile of straw on my arm and felt it prickling my skin. He was right.

His eyes were troubled. “They laid Him in a manger. I know what that is. That’s a thing full of straw. That’s not a place to put a baby.”

No, I thought. That’s no place for a baby.

“They should have made room for Him some place better,” he continued.

They should have made room, my thoughts echoed.

“It was God. He should have been born in the nicest hotel.”

The straw was still sitting on my arm. I collected it in my hand and let myself feel its scratchiness. And I tried to imagine my Savior lying in a bed full of plain, rough, scratchy straw.

Something clicked for me in that moment. Zac’s words pierced my mind and burrowed into my heart. No room. No room for Jesus. The Innkeeper was me, and I had left no room for the Savior.

I saw what was wrong, suddenly. I had pushed the Baby out and let unimportant things take the place that was His. I had banished Him to the far corners of our holiday. Church on Christmas Eve, maybe a prayer or two. A quick read of the Christmas story. Nothing more. All the rest had been reserved for talking Santas and toy catalogs and parties and such. A whole lot of fancy nothing.

In my quest for the perfect Christmas I had lost the meaning of the manger. I had forgotten the simplicity of the straw.

Our Christmas changed after that. I started by bringing that handful of straw up to the house and stuffing it in an old canning jar of my grandmother’s. Then I set it in a place of prominence, where it would remind me, with each glance, of the miracle that happened in a long-ago cave.

Next, I pulled out the Advent paper from the recesses of my filing cabinet. Studying the suggestions, I decided they were a bit too formal for our free-spirited family, so we started from scratch and formed our own Advent celebration. That first year Zac and I fashioned a simple wreath from evergreen branches we found lying in the yard and molded five little balls of clay into candle holders, which we tucked around the wreath. Nothing fancy. And on the fourth Sunday before Christmas, not knowing what to expect, we gathered around our table, dimmed the lights, and lit the first of the five candles. Dave opened with prayer.

“Lord, we ask Your forgiveness for our neglect. We want to honor You. We want You to be the center of all we do this month. More than anything else, Lord, we want Your presence.”

“Dad,” Zac whispered, “it’s not polite to ask for presents.”

* * *

This year, I pray you find your own way to make room for the Baby--the Baby the whole world is desperate to dismiss. May the miracle of the manger become a reality to you again ... or for the very first time.

dialogue with "anonymous"

Among the comments I received about Tuesday's post, the longest was from an anonymous poster who raised several issues on the topic of legalism. Rather than respond in the comment section, I thought I'd share my response in a post. The anonymous poster's comments are italicized.

First, though, let me say thank you to whoever put the time and thought into their comment.

Hi Shannon, I appreciate your post and certainly understand some of your concerns. However, there were a couple of comments that I felt the Spirit move me to comment on and perhaps encourage you to think about during your quiet times with our Lord.

I hear an awful lot these days from our church and others within the Body about the need to beware of "legalism" and keep clear of it. I believe there's an element of truth in that and an element of falsehood. Clearly we see examples in Scripture of Paul admonishing Believers for their excesses. You commented, that you "didn't see a correlation between respect and God's view of bare-legged boys." While I would agree with you that God views the "bare-legged boys" hearts and not their outward appearance, I don't see how one can argue that there is a direct correlation between how one dresses and the level of respect they may be showing given a particular circumstance. This is difficult at best to explain in this forum but let me just suggest that if there were no correlation, the term "Sunday's Best" would have never been coined. Why do people dress up for a wedding or a funeral if not for respect? So what's the problem with dressing up a little for one day during a chapel service?

You make a good point, A. There's nothing at all wrong with dressing up for a wedding or a funeral or for church. As I noted, even some within our church like to dress up -- and there's no problem whatsoever with that. The only problem I have is when dress is a mandated issue, or when people look at outward appearance as an indicator of inward devotion.

One woman came to us from another much more conservative church in town after they put on a skit for their children to introduce the new Sunday school curriculum. She told me what happened. "The pastor called two women up on the stage. One wore a nice dress, nylons and high heels. The other wore denim overalls. After the kids looked at the two for a minute, the pastor then asked the group, 'Okay, kids. Now tell me ... which one of these women is a Christian?'" This broke my friend's heart because, as she told me, "My mother would be someone who would show up to church in overalls, if she ever got a notion to come. Is this the sort of welcome she'd receive?"

I also have a friend whose family came to us after the pastor of their church questioned her youngest son's salvation ... simply because he had let his hair grow long.

On a side note about weddings, after Dave and I eloped, we decided to have a second wedding ceremony six weeks later (in August) to include our friends and loved ones. Only the inner circle knew it was an actual ceremony. Everyone else thought they were coming to a reception. In the invitations, we urged people to come dressed comfortably and to be prepared for swimming (we held the service in the backyard of my parents' home, which sat on the edge of a lake). It delighted me to see people walking up to my parents' door wearing shorts and flip-flops, and I got a kick out of overhearing my good friend say to her husband, "Hey! This isn't a reception -- this is a wedding!" The reason we did this was simple: I had once attended a lengthy Catholic wedding on a sweltering August day and nearly fainted from the heat. I remember sitting in the pew thinking how much I hated the hot, merciless nylons clinging to my legs and longing for the second I could yank them off. I didn't want my guests to feel that way. I wanted clothing to be the last thing on their mind. Instead, I wanted them to have a wonderful time celebrating with us. And they did! People sat on blankets on the lawn and swam in the lake (we even had one impromptu baptism) while friends from college played the guitar in the background. It was simply perfect.

We are also told that we're to be all things to all men in order for the Gospel to be put forth.

That's kind of the point of Tuesday's post. What gospel are we advocating? The gospel that says God waits for you to clean yourself up before you're acceptable to Him? That's not my gospel. Nor is my gospel one that says, "This spot (day, activity, etc.) is holy. God is here. He's not over there, though, so that's where you can relax and let your hair down." My gospel says, "Come to Me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest."

We are admonished to consider the weaker brother. We are exhorted to esteem others more than ourselves. Isn't it possible that acquiesing to the school's Dress Code might help strengthen a "more conservative's" efforts at teaching their child respect. If outward appearance is not important, then why did God go to such efforts to tell us in His word of example after example where He specifically was meticulous about dress and other ceremonial practices? What is God trying to tell us in 1Cor 4-16? Why do we sometimes go to God as Our Father, sometimes Daddy, and sometimes as God Almighty? Why do we pray sometimes driving down the road, or on our back in bed, and at other times on our knees?

First, God is all those things to us at all times. He is not sometimes Father and sometimes God Almighty -- He is both at once. The difference is in us and in our need at the moment.

As to the weaker brother, Romans 14 makes it clear that the weaker brother is the one living under and trying to adhere to a lot of self-imposed rules. We're told not to despise each other, which, applied to this situation, means I'm not to judge the one who feels it's necessary to dress up, but by the same token, they are not to judge those of us who don't dress up. Verse 4 says, "Who are you to judge another's servant? To his own master he stands or falls. Indeed, he will be made to stand, for God is able to make him stand." It would never occur to me to criticize those who dress up on Tuesday mornings. I'd just like them to do the same for me -- respect that I've brought the issue before the Lord and I feel the freedom to choose. (And can I say here that we DO have Tera dress up on Tuesdays? We've taught both kids that it's important to adhere to the rules of the school. But when our friend was sent home last year because he forgot and wore shorts, and Tera told me this week she'd probably be separated from the other kids and sent to the back row for wearing shorts, that's where, in my opinion, a rule crossed over and became a judgment.)

As to the detailed instructions God gave for ceremonial dress, one of the most beautiful aspects of Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) is the fact that although the High Priest wore very elaborate dress for every other occasion, on that particular day -- the one day a year when the sins of Israel were atoned for -- the High Priest was to take off all the elaborate garb and wear a simple linen robe when he went into the Holy of Holies. That meant the priest looked no different at that moment than any of the other Jewish men waiting in the courtyard. The picture is two-fold (in my opinion): it prophecized that the Messiah would come in their midst looking just like the rest of them (not set apart by finery), and two, that when we come into God's presence it's the heart He's interested in, not our outward adornment.

The Bible I read tells me that our God is not the author of confusion but rather there is order and discipline to how our God works. We are called to be in the World but not of the World. When others look at us, whether we like it or not, sometimes the only testimony they will have is our outward appearance. I see Scripture as clearly telling us that we should be different. That others should see Jesus in us and an evident difference between us and the World. Sometimes I see very little difference between those who call themselves Believers and the World. A good case in point is Howard Dean's most recent comment where he self-identified himself as a White Christian. I won't go into that because that's definitely another issue, but who would know he's a Christian by his outward appearance and things he says and does?

I'm not sure what to say about the confusion issue, because I'm not sure what you mean. I suppose I could say that it's confusing to me to understand which "accepted" mode of dress is more holy -- the Little House on the Prairie denim jumper, or the big, wild hair and spider-leg eyelashes of TBN? Neither of those alternatives is attractive to me. I'd rather dress simply and without drawing attention to myself.

As to Howard Dean, you could argue that he certainly dresses the part. But it's behavior that matters. We can't wear our Christianity like a sandwich board. It takes time to earn the right to enter someone's life and share your faith. Hopefully, what they observe in me is not that I look like the world's idea of a Christian (by my dress) but that I love others.

Remember, Jesus did not say that the world would recognize us by our appearance. Instead, He said this: "By this all will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another." (John 13:35)

Your blog specifically mentioned, "I'm talking about piercings and tattoos and mohawks and dredlocks and jeans on Sunday -- and all the people I love and fellowship with who have and/or wear those things." If you were to classify those things as either Godly or Worldly, which category would you put them in? Are piercings, tattoos, mohawks etc. done because God called them to or because of peer pressure, to be cool or in some other way to be accepted by the World. We are called to esteem others more than ourselves - and that goes both ways true enough - but has anyone ever considered how difficult (if not impossible) it is for me to instill respect for my beliefs from my children when all around them they get a different message. Including within the church? If I tell my kids that they can't have green hair (or piercings, or tattoos, or wear cutoffs with their underwear three inches above them at church, etc etc.) because it's dishonoring and disrespectful to me and the family name, and that if God wanted them to have green hair He'd have created them with it, then how is the church helping me when it's all over the inside? Please don't get me wrong, I know there's a danger in dwelling too much on those things. But I do believe there must be a balance. Just as there is with God. He is Holy and Righteous, Merciful and full of Grace, vengeful, a judge, and yet loving and forgiving. We cannot be totally legalistic and yet we cannot go without standards.

Ever since reading "A Quest for Godliness" by J.I. Packer several years ago, I've been intrigued by this notion of whether or not things are "Godly" or "Worldy" (Packer classifies them as "Sacred" or "Secular.") I was fascinated by his description of the Puritans. "As their Christianity was all-embracing, so their living was all of a piece ... There was for them no disjunction between sacred and secular; all creation, so far as they were concerned, was sacred, and all activities, of whatever kind, must be sanctified, that is, done to the glory of God." There's much more to it, but what I read there challenged me to see that it all belongs to God and He is in it all as long as we acknowledge Him and sanctify our activities to Him.

I'm sure you're doing a great job instilling those values in your children. But I'm also sure you tell them, "Our rules are our rules -- not everybody else's." As for our family, my children have learned that God's arms are open to all, and that a life yielded to Him becomes a thing of beauty. They've learned that there's freedom in Christ and that it's not what goes into the stomach (or on the body) that makes us clean or unclean, it's what comes out of the heart.

I agree wholeheartedly with the comment that Nancy made. If you wouldn't wear your hat to the dinner table, then why would you wear it in church?

We have to be careful to distinguish between what is scriptural and what is cultural. Whereas in our society, men (mostly in the past) took their hat off as a show of respect, in other cultures the opposite is the norm. A Jewish man wouldn't think of entering a holy place without covering his head with a kippah. So who's right? The answer, I think, is in Romans 14:14, "I know and am convinced by the Lord Jesus that there is nothing unclean of itself; but to him who considers anything to be unclean, to him it is unclean." If you feel convicted to take your hat off in church, you'd better do so. To NOT do so would be sin to you (Rom 14:22, 23). If you feel the freedom to wear a hat, do so with a thankful heart to the One who gave you peace to do so. Elsewhere we're told, "To the pure, all things are pure." It's a matter of conscience.

Isn't it possible that with such emphasis on "not" being "legalistic", that we are failing others but not giving them the chance to understand a "Holy" God and what He means when He says "Be Holy for I am Holy?"

Holiness is a matter of the heart. It's character, behavior, attitude. Those other things? Green hair, piercings, tattoos, etc. -- all those things will be left in the grave. What we take into eternity is spiritual, not material.

As for finding another school, that's certain you and Dave's business and call. I wonder though, what's God trying to do in this situation? I'm reminded of some I've talked with who went from one church to another until they found one that they liked or that "didn't do what that other church did." I've often asked them what difference they could have made if they would have stayed where God put them and looked at what God wanted them to do in the situation rather than just getting out of something they weren't comfortable with.

That's not to say you should stay or go. As I said, that's you and Dave's call and I'm certain that you'll look to the Lord first. It's just food for thought to all who might be reading this and wondering "Why am I in this situation?"

Some may be asking what I'd do and how I'd handle it. Without full knowledge of the situation, I can only say I'd be thanking God that I have a Christian school to send my child to and I'd be teaching my kids why it's important to dress up on this one day so as to pay special tribute to God Almighty and to honor the schools officials who God has put in charge as authorities over that school. And why it also honors the other parents and children who might want to have a special dress up day to honor God. One thing I'm pretty sure of though is that picketting the school would be the last thing on my mind - not even jokingly.

I know what you mean about church-hopping. That's another issue for me. I really dislike the mentality we have in this culture that says we can just go around "kicking the tires" to see whichever church makes us feel the most comfortable or has the best donuts after service. Just as my husband and I feel "married" to our church (unlike in other denominations, we do not move our pastors around. If you plant the church, you commit to it. On rare occasions, a pastor may move to another area, but it's the exception rather than the norm. In fact, we don't even have a system in place to match pastors with churches. We'll probably be at this church until the Lord takes Dave home.), I wish that those who came would also feel that level of commitment. It's always a stab in my heart when someone just up and moves on to see what's going on in the church down the road.

But this school isn't a church. We've been here four years, and in that time we've had many opportunities to teach our children about adapting and ignoring offenses and respecting authority, even when that authority teaches something different from what we teach at home. I don't feel we're under the same sense of obligation to stick it out here as I would with a church. (Before Dave was a pastor, we once stayed at a church until it closed its doors because we never felt God was releasing us to go.)

I am thankful for all that my children have learned at this school. I'm not certain we're leaving. My husband has been gone all week at a pastor's conference and we have much to talk about when he comes home (this is not the only issue we've been struggling with at the school).

So in closing let me just say that I certainly understand some of your frustration but just as you fume over legalism, I get pretty worked up when I see people advocate no standards (or at least very lax standards) all in the name of Grace. I find it very hard to believe that when I see Jesus, He'll be full of piercings, tattoos, green hair, and wearing cutoffs and a tank top. Somehow I just believe I'll see a KING adorned as a king. It strikes me as there must have been something very striking about Jesus' appearance to have John passout when he first saw Him.

I'm not advocating no standards. We do expect that our people won't dress provocatively. To do so, especially on the part of a young woman, would be to put a stumbling block in the way of a brother. But beyond that, we just want people to come and meet Jesus.

One of my favorite brothers is a guy named Jesse. When he stepped into a Calvary Chapel in Southern California about fourteen years ago, he was shirtless, tattooed, barefoot, and in ragged, barely-there jeans. He had a diaper in one back pocket, a baby bottle in the other, and his year-old daughter perched on his hip. Did his coming cause a stir? Not a bit. Somebody scooched over, motioned for Jesse to come and sit, and handed him a Bible. The welcome he got glued him to his seat. The love he met through the pastor's words washed his soul. Jesse left his old life right there in the building when he walked out, and he hasn't stopped talking about Jesus ever since. I've sat and listened to Jesse talk from the pulpit. Sometimes I can still see that not-so-delightful tattoo sticking out from under his sleeve. And you know what? Every time I see it, I'm reminded of how great our God is that He goes out on the byways and highways and scoops orphans from ditches and brings them to His table.

I'm also reminded of something one of our pastors, Greg Laurie, likes to say: "God cleans His fish after He catches them."

I think you're right about what Jesus is going to look like when we get our first glimpse of Him -- except on one point. No, Jesus won't have a tattoo, cutoffs or a tank top (nor will He be wearing a suit and tie). But He most definitely has piercings. In fact, He has four.

Ok, that's enough. I hope I've made some sense here. Like I said, it's a difficult thing to explain without a personal conversation. I just thought I'd add a little different perspective because I felt the Spirit telling me to do so.

It is difficult to convey your heart through this format, but I do hear yours. I'm sorry if my comments offended you. They weren't meant to do that. And you did make some good points. I just think that overall, dress is a separator rather than a unifier. And the God of my Bible is One who ate with prostitutes, touched the unclean, and loved the unloveable -- despite their appearance.

God bless you, Anonymous. :)

tails

I wish this story involved two cats because I'd love an excuse to title this, "A Tail of Two Kitties," but it's not to be. There's only one kitty involved in this little tale. Character two is a goat. Now that I think of it, if both were goats, this could be "A Tail of Two Kiddies." Still, the characters are what they are ... so we'll settle for "Tails."

Still with me?

As I type this post, the kitten in question is in her favorite spot. I can't see her unless I move my laptop to one side and look down. That's because her favorite spot in the world is the top of my feet.

She creeps up on me throughout the day and brushes a light hello across my ankles. I don't have to look to know it's her. The other two say hello with a bite or a love prick with those scary baby claws. Sometimes, if they really want my attention, they'll set to climbing my bare leg. Coffee has nothing over kitten claws for opening your eyes first thing in the morning.

But this little gray tabby always greets me with a swish of her soft tail curled around the back of my legs, or maybe with a little grooming lick on a toe or two. I reach down and scratch her on that between-ear spot and she licks my hand in return. And then I go back to my typing and she goes back to her perching, content as can be to sit on the tops of my feet.

This kitten is a survivor. I wrote about her close brush with death several weeks back. In a nutshell, the mother cat moved all five kittens to a spot under the house. After Dave demolished the dog house (which stood in the way of his rescue) and dug a hole big enough to wriggle under, he pulled the kittens out and put them in a box to bring into the house. Two were nearly dead. It took me two hours of nurturing to return heat to those kittens' limp, icy bodies. Though one died two weeks later, the little gray tabby rebounded. And today she's a feisty, mischievous, fur-covered ball of "let's have fun."

I watch her chase, wrestle, pounce, swipe, leap and tumble all day long, but here and there she creeps back for a contented rest on my feet.

It occurred to me the other night what I was seeing. "Do you see this?" I asked Dave. "Do you realize what she's doing?" I caught him studying Hebrews and preparing his message for church.

"No. What's she doing?"

"I saved her ... and now she sits at my feet."

To some, she's just a cat lounging in an odd place--but to me, now, she's a picture of my relationship with God. He saved me. He rescued me from certain death. And in response, I should want, long, love to sit at His feet.

Now let me tell you about Buffy. When I wrote about her birth, I thought we'd end up calling her Nibbles but the kids thought she had the face of a buffalo, so they started calling her Buffy.

This little white goat is spring-loaded. Ever watch those cartoons where they show a lamb bounding through a pasture like a bouncing ball of fluff? Buffy has those beat all to pieces. She can jump like nobody's business and actually prefers leaping to walking. We'll sit and watch her jump right from a dead stand-still, for no other reason than that it pleases her to meet the clouds.

About five weeks ago, while leaving for a meeting at church, Dave heard crying coming from the pasture. He pulled the car over to investigate and found that Buffy had somehow wedged herself within the limbs of a multi-branched tree near the back of the pasture. We can only imagine that she leapt up there. When Dave found her, her head was twisted to one side and her left front leg was contorted up and behind her at a sickening angle. We don't know how long she hung there but it was clear when he freed her that she'd gone into shock. He called me on his cell phone and had me meet him in the pasture.

Now, before I continue, I have to tell you about the electric fence. Because he has legs up to his ears and can step over the fence the way you'd cross a speed bump, my husband saw no reason to put a gate anywhere along the fence line. Because I'm 5'5" and have normally proportioned legs and the electric fence comes to about 1/8 of an inch below my crotch, I see a big need for a gate. I despise electric fences. I have this fear that at some point, I'll be trying to get over the fence and I'll catch the top wire between my heel and my gardening clog and fall and get myself twisted up in those three hot wires and I'll just lie there pulsating every three or four seconds until someone wonders, "Hey--where's Mom?"

All that being said, I quit going in the pasture. Then Dave told me about a little spot near the goat house where the fence goes over a pile of haphazardly stacked planks. "You can get over easier right here," he advised.

I did that a handful of times until Dave thought to add, "By the way--a big snake lives under those planks, so keep an eye out."

Keep an eye out? How about we just quit going over the fence instead. Now I had a new element to add to my vision: I could envision myself lying on the ground in that same pulsating, clog-wire tangled heap, only now a giant woman-devouring snake was slithering in and out of my limbs, wondering which part of me to consume first.

I abandoned the goats ... until Dave's phone call. And in that moment I learned something: when you mix love and adrenaline, you get yourself a motivator so powerful it will catapult you right over snake-dwelling planks and electric fences. My legs grew right up to my ears and with no effort at all, I found myself on the other side of fear.

I took the goat from Dave and settled us both on a pile of fresh hay in the goat barn. I held her against my chest and tried to calm her shaking. Her eyes were unseeing; her heart beat a staccato against my arm. She didn't know I was there, I'm quite sure of that. She didn't know anything at all except that she'd been stuck and now she was unstuck, but hurting all over her little body.

Dave had to leave. I called Tera up at the house and asked her to bring me a big towel. When she did, I wrapped Buffy and held her as tightly as I dared. We sat like that for an hour and a half, until I was shivering as hard as she was. When I couldn't stand the cold any longer, I stood with her, retraced my steps to the fence, and hopped right back over. She didn't move, didn't blink, didn't cry--not the entire walk up to the house. That worried me immensely. Once inside, I set her down on Larry's green dog mat and tucked her in. She laid like that for another two hours--not noticing when I sat near her and stroked her head, not noticing when Dave came home and did the same, not noticing when we dragged her mat into our bedroom so she could be by us through the night.

She survived the shock, but she couldn't stand. Not the next day and not the day after that. She couldn't move much at all. Dave and I had to go out several times a day and lift her up so she could nurse from Whiney, her mother.

I took her to the vet. The first thing I was told was that it was amazing she lived through the shock. If Dave hadn't found her when he did, and if I hadn't warmed her, she wouldn't have survived. Another four minutes and $75 later, I was told it would be $300 for an x-ray--and if that proved what the vet thought, which was that she had broken her leg up near the shoulder, it would be another $800 for surgery.

I left with instructions to give her six shots over three days. We didn't have $1100 for x-rays and surgery for a goat. I told the vet that. She said she understood, but didn't give me much hope for recovery otherwise. Instead she gave me an unconvincing, "Good luck."

I prayed on the way home. Prayed again later when I returned her to the barn. "God, she can't spend the rest of her days dragging a useless leg wherever she goes. Please fix this."

It was all we had, but it was enough. I don't attribute her healing to the six shots I gave her. It was God.

Right now, I can watch her balancing herself on the steep slope of a rusty, dusty, decaying stump while she strains to reach a must-have leaf of a huckleberry branch. A moment ago I watched her take a joy-filled leap straight in the air--and land herself on four good, solid legs, tail waggling with pure delight. She's completely healed, and God is completely responsible.

But can I tell you the sad part of all this? I held her, warmed her, stroked her, worried over her, treated her, prayed for her ... and now she runs when I come near the fence. She's back to her independent goat ways, which include no tender thank you's or signs of trust. She doesn't need me anymore and I'll bet if I went in the pasture and tried all day to coax her near me, I wouldn't get within ten feet. And I have such a longing to touch her little face and scratch her between her horns and give her a loving pat.

One was saved and sits at my feet. One was saved and runs when she sees me. I love them both and I'd rescue them all over again ... but only one remembers.

When we were utterly helpless, with no way of escape, Christ came at just the right time and died for us sinners who had no use for him. Rom 5:6 (TLB)