© 2012 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Passionate
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from any theologians accusing me of heresy or Christian counselors and dating websites claiming I am advocating a new alternative lifestyle. In many ways, a dog is better than a husband in that a dog is less expensive and much easier to housebreak.
I get asked romantic advice a lot, and I don’t know why. I have only had three boyfriends, and the longest relationship I ever had lasted five months. And did I mention my last relationship ended in 1996? There’s also the embarrassing, yet well known fact that I can’t even talk to a man I find the least bit attractive without hyper-ventilating and breaking out in hives. Maybe I am like Jane Austen in some ways. She wrote all these great love stories and was sought after for relationship wisdom, yet she never married or had any real romance of her own. Of course, there could be other things that draw people to me when they need help with love. I am a critical thinker and help people think outside the box. Also, I have never had any messy divorces that have involved Dog the Bounty Hunter trying to locate an ex, nor have I ever been on Maury or Jerry Springer for any of the paternity episodes. Whatever the reasons, it seems of late I have been asked more than my fair share of relationship questions, and almost all of them have been from those who are unhappily single. A lot of the questions have been asked out of a place of brokenness, frustration, and shame. A lot of the people I talk to who are unhappily single are embarrassed to feel what they feel and they think no one understands what they’re going through. So, for every single and miserable person reading this, let me be your voice for the next few pages.
As I said before, my last boyfriend and I broke up the day after Christmas of 1996. Until about two years ago, I had gone about ten years without being interested in anyone. For the most part, I don’t mind being alone. There are several reasons why. First of all, I am an introvert, and so I need lots of alone time to recharge my batteries. I have never seen solitude as punishment. Next, I’ve not seen a lot of great relationships modeled for me, and so for a long time I simply believed romance was more trouble than it was worth. Lastly, I know all too well the danger of the “grass is always greener” mentality. For all the single friends I have who bemoan being single, I have a bunch of married friends who miss the freedom and smaller number of responsibilities that come with singleness. So, I see the importance of learning to be content in whatever circumstance I find myself in, because even the ones that seem more appealing have their own set of challenges. There are certain moments, however, when I crave Boaz (the name I use when I pray for my future husband) more than others, and those moments come when I am going through trials.
There is something about being in the thick of adversity, whether it is some challenge or loss or spiritual warfare that makes me long for that companionship something fierce. I used to feel guilty that I wanted Boaz more when things were going badly, because I felt it was selfish, as if I only wanted him around because I couldn’t handle the stress of the difficulties I faced on my own. As I gave it more thought and prayer, however, I realized that wasn’t the case. It’s fairer to say that tests and tribulations force me to come face to face with my shortcomings and faults. Trouble makes me realize that there’s more to life than just me, because the little world I build for myself can come crashing down without the slightest warning. Adversity reminds me that I am not complete in and of myself, and that true fulfillment can only come from finding my identity in something or someone greater than myself.
I have felt a sense of incompleteness in the past two years for many reasons. I have faced a lot of financial and health-related challenges. I saw some friendships go bust. God had me do a lot of spiritual housecleaning, and it was painful to look at myself so candidly. I lost a lot of people I cared about, including my mom. Thankfully, I wasn’t alone when I got the news of her death, and I had a strong shoulder to cry on that evening. However, it was a different story when I went home to New Jersey. Before her funeral, the funeral director opened her casket and let the family members have alone time with her. (Why people like alone time with a corpse, I have no idea.) Now, not only am I okay with solitude, I’m okay if there are long stretches without physical affection. I only scored a 1 in that category on the love language quiz. Yet that’s not the case when I’m going through something hard. Being there staring at my mom’s casket made me want Boaz and want to feel him close to me like I have never felt before. So what did I do? I asked the young, very sweet, and extremely cut assistant funeral director if I could hold his hand and put my head on his shoulder during the “alone time.” At first I felt very foolish and forward to make such a request of a stranger, but then I thought that hey, he’s getting over nine grand out of the deal; a little sympathy spoon is the least he could do. So, all that to say I understand a bit how one can come to feel so desperately alone that the loneliness is almost tangible.
So what do we do with this loneliness and feeling that we are somehow incomplete? Let’s be honest when we say the world and the Church often make us feel worse about it. The world’s view on singleness is obvious: it sucks, and so we should try to find whomever we can as fast as we can. Our Christian friends’ views run to all kinds of extremes. There are the ones who love to say how it’s not good for man to live alone, and so finding a spouse is considered a sacrament, right below getting saved, baptized, and taking communion. Then there’s the other extreme that says it’s better not to marry, Jesus is our Bridegroom, the world is going to hell in a hand basket so wanting a spouse should be at the bottom of our list of priorities. For those of us who don’t prescribe to the latter or believe that we’re called to lifelong singleness, we are bombarded with a lot of unsolicited advice as to how to get a husband. Just the other day, I saw a quote from a relationship book by a Christian author, and she said that women need to be “mysterious, peaceful, and captivating.” What in the blue blazes is that supposed to mean, anyway? Can the author possibly be more vague? By mysterious, does she mean when I’m out with a guy, I should obsessively look at my cell phone every five seconds and gasp, and then when the man asks me what’s wrong, bat my eyelashes and sigh, “Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you”?
What’s worse is the comments we get about why we’ve reached such-and-such age and are still single. I am 37, and I have been told every reason in the book as to why I am not married: I’m too fat, I talk too much, I don’t talk enough, I don’t have pierced ears, I am too passive, I am too aggressive, I have a bizarre sense of humor, I am too goofy, I am too serious, I am not spiritual enough, I am too high-minded, I have impossible standards in men, I share too much, I am too closed off, and my all-time favorite, I don’t carry a sensible purse. All these messages can be summed up like this: “You’re still single because you’re lacking in some form or fashion.”
Boys are starting to notice me, and I’m sorry to say that all this male attention has caused some embarrassing insecurity to come to the surface. I have made it a point to not be that girl who looks for a guy simply because she is on the take. I want to be that girl is first focused on the kind of wife she should be and what she can offer a Boaz. Therein lay my problem. Not just mine, but also something most of us single people have thought about but been afraid to admit: we don’t feel like we have anything to offer. Last week, I was driving around town thinking about the guys who had asked me out recently, about a drive-by, hit-and-run marriage proposal that I turned down, and how it seems that the ones we like are never the ones that love us back. I had a lot of those messages in my head of how I could get Boaz to fall in love with me if I only ________________________________. Then out of the clear blue, God said to me, “Sharon, there’s nothing you can do to make Boaz love you.”
I began to cry and protested back, “What do you mean, God? If there’s nothing I can do, what hope do I have?”
God repeated, “Sharon, there’s nothing you can do to make Boaz love you. If you have to earn his love, it is then conditional and ceases to be love. You can’t make Boaz love you any more than you can make me love you. It is a free gift.”
Sometimes, we have the tendency to think that our salvation is a free gift, but everything else is a salary that has to be earned. We strive and perform and jump through flaming hoops of fire to impress God enough to give us something we really want, forgetting that it’s up to him to do all the hard stuff. That’s not to say that we don’t do certain things, or that we don’t work on our character, but our motivation to do all those things should be in response to and acceptance of God’s extravagant love for and blessings to us, not in order to earn His love and blessings. For those of us that long for a Boaz, it isn’t a matter of working and doing to get a mate as much as accepting that we have a loving father who will give us what and who is best for us, and do it in his perfect timing.
So, if we’re still single because it’s not God’s timing yet, and not because we’re really messing up, what do we do in the meantime? How do we bide the time while we wait for Boaz’s appearance? There are some of us who are doing all we can in the waiting. We are studying God’s word, serving our fellow man, giving sacrificially, and everything else we’re told to do. Some of you that I talk to say the loneliness kills you sometimes, and you’re trying to be good while you wait, but you don’t think anyone, including God, understands. To you, I will say what my pastor says all the time: don’t make the Bible the unreal book. Every page contains a story of comfort and edification and provision for whatever situation we face. For those in that season of loneliness, I present the Biblical account of Isaac.
Genesis 24 tells the story of how Abraham sent his servant Eliezer to Haran to find a wife for his son Isaac. Sarah, Isaac’s mother, had recently died, and I bet anything that Abraham didn’t want Isaac to succumb to the temptation to settle for a pagan Canaanite girl just because he was lonely and grief-stricken. I don’t know if Abraham told Isaac what he was doing. Isaac was 37 when his mom died. Just like me. Most of us know how the story continues, that Eliezer found Rebekah, who agreed to go back to Canaan and marry Isaac. The text says that Isaac was praying in the open country at night when he looked up and saw Rebekah approaching. I wonder if he had the same anxious evening prayer sessions that we do. I wonder if he knew that the answer to his prayer was so close. Rebekah didn’t come on the scene until Isaac was 40. Was he also in panic mode? Did he wonder if maybe he wasn’t lovable because of his background, or his standing in life, or any of the things we think disqualify us from finding that one person to share our lives with? I wonder if his prayer that night went something like this:
“God, it’s me again. Work’s done for the day. I tended the fields and fed the animals and kept the evil Philistines at bay—again. Nothing new to report. Just continuing to be the good Jewish boy and dutiful son, like you want me to be. I don’t mean to be a pest, but 40 is creeping up on me, and I was wondering, just in case you forgot, if you could maybe put a rush on the wife? I mean, it’ll be really hard for me to become the father of many nations without one. Not that I’m trying to question you or your timing or anything like that. It’s just I’m really lonely. It’s not the same since Mom died. And I know Dad won’t be here forever. Sometimes I just really wish I had someone to go through life with, you know? Oh, whom am I kidding? Maybe it’s not you holding up the program. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m too picky. Maybe I really can’t do any better than a Canaanite girl. Look at me! I’m almost 40; I really don’t have anything of my own. I mean, it’s all Dad’s. And speaking of Dad and Mom, not that I don’t love them dearly, but what’s gonna happen when the right girl comes along and I try to explain to her the craziness that is my family? ‘Oh, yeah, my parents. Well, you should know that my mom is also my aunt. Well, half-aunt. See, my parents had different moms but the same dad. Siblings? Ah, yeah, I have this half-brother who’s 13 years older than me, but we don’t see him any more, and I’m not even really supposed to talk about him. I mean really now, why would Mom and Dad, or anyone else, for that matter, think that having a kid with your wife’s housekeeper would ever be a good idea? Just ask the last governor of California!’ Sorry, God. Now I’m just rambling. Anyway, you know what I mean, because it’s the same thing I asked for last night, and the night before, and every night since Mom died. Not that I think you’ve forgotten, but in case you have, the desire of my heart is still the same. Thanks for listening. Again. Amen.”
Recently, I had an anxious single moment, not unlike the one I am sure Isaac experienced. I’ve tried very hard to pour myself into God and into other people, but some days the hole feels like a black hole. I asked God to give me some kind of hope, something I could put my hands on to show me that all these years of waiting, saving myself, and working to improve myself weren’t for nothing. I didn’t realize that the promise of Boaz wasn’t any further away than the four-legged, fur-bearing Boaz curled up at my feet.
I have a dog named Bruno. He is large and friendly and affectionate and over-bearing. He is the first dog I have had as an adult. Someone asked me how he got the name Bruno. I asked the woman who had owned him before I did, since he came to me with that name. I was told her grandfather had bought her grandmother a large German shepherd and named him Bruno. Her grandfather had to go to Europe to fight in World War II, and so he got his beloved the dog to keep her grandmother company and protect her until he came back. As I reflected on the story, I looked at my Bruno, and God said to me, “Sharon, I’ve given you Bruno as a sign of my promise, and he will keep you company until Boaz comes for you.”
In John 14, Jesus tells his disciples he is going away, but he will send the comforter in his place. I don’t want to say anything theologically incorrect here, because I believe in the Trinity and that each part of the Godhead is indeed fully God. However, I don’t think that the Holy Spirit was ever meant to the take the place of having Jesus Christ in the flesh with us. What I mean is that even though the Holy Spirit is fully God, his presence in us was never meant to squelch the longing for the physical presence of and fellowship with Jesus that we will have in the world to come. Just as me having Bruno could never be quite like having Boaz here in the flesh by my side and being able to commune with him on that deepest soul level. However, just as Jesus didn’t up and leave the disciples to fend for themselves, neither does God in our singleness.
Today was another day I needed to be reminded that God hadn’t forgotten me in the Boaz department, even though in the last few weeks I have had to contend with Boaz’s evil twin brother, Bozo. I went to my mailbox, and there was a package from my aunt. I opened it to find a beautiful wedding veil. She didn’t include a note or anything. My guess is it was my mom’s wedding veil. As far as I was concerned, it was sent straight from God, to say once again, “Don’t worry. Boaz is on the way.” God gives us the comfort of his Holy Spirit, and he will give us little pick me ups here and there as we serve and love to comfort us and remind us we’re not totally alone, we’re not unloved, and we are not forgotten.
The End
MILK!!!!!!!
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Next to Dogliness by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David’s Harp and Pen
Mood: Scratchy
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from overprotective pet owners who think I am in any way mistreating my dog. As long and hard as I’ve tried to understand Bruno’s complex relationship with shrubbery, I have always been at a loss. Besides, if running through the bushes keeps him out of the bars at night, then I won’t complain.
I have a large, hyperactive, over-bearing, extremely extroverted dog named Bruno. He is full of energy and does a good job of keeping me, his introverted, overly analytical momma, from getting too serious. Bruno loves his big backyard, which is overflowing with foliage. I like it that he enjoys running and frolicking outside, as it keeps him slim, trim, and svelte. However, some times his love of nature presents complications.
Last week, Bruno came in from the yard with an entirely new ecosystem growing behind his left ear. I got as best a look at it as I could, and it resembled a nest of pine needles. In fact, in the days that followed, I found the same kind of needle in various spots in his fur. Everywhere else he let me pluck them out, but not behind his ear. I was concerned, because it was obviously making him uncomfortable, and I was worried if I didn’t get it out that the area could become infected, not to mention that, coupled with all the other pine needles he walked in with on a daily basis, he was turning into Chia Dog. Every time I went near him with scissors, clippers, or the Furminator®, he got nervous and bucked his head.
I asked around for advice on what to do to extricate the ear sagebrush. Some said take him to the vet or the groomer. That was out, as it was too expensive at the time. Others said to give him doggy happy pills or Benadryl. That was out as well, as I didn’t want to administer drugs to him without knowing how he would react. Still others said that I should simply make him sit still and demand he obey me. I ask you, my dear blogees, how do I make dogs, or people for that matter, do things they don’t want to do? Apparently I am the only one on the planet without the ability to Jedi mind control the sentient beings around me, so instruction as to how to wield my Jedi powers in such a manner would be most helpful.
After a week of failed attempt after failed attempt to amputate the doggedly unyielding pine needle collection that had now taken up permanent residence on my dog, I had about given up on my mission. Then Saturday night, I crawled into bed to go to sleep, and Bruno hopped into bed with me. He was in the mood to spoon, and spoon we did. He snuggled his head into my side and went to town licking my hand. In a moment of divine inspiration, I went for the bird’s nest with my dry hand and gingerly plucked out a single pine needle. Bruno didn’t even flinch. I went for another single pine needle. Lightning struck twice. As long as Bruno was snuggling and licking my hand, I was able to remove the pine needles one by one, until they were all gone. As far as I could tell, Bruno never knew what hit him.
I learned a lot from that experience about my own pursuit of godliness. There is a lot of emphasis placed in the Church, most unintentional I think, on the big, one-time transformational experience. We talk about getting serious about God, dedicating our lives to Him, and being filled with the Holy Spirit as if they are one-shot events. Yes, some changes do happen overnight, and some miracles occur instantly, but I have found that the experience of becoming holy, maturing, and giving one’s life to God are more often gradual events that happen over the course of time. I honestly don’t think we could even physically stand it if God removed all our character flaws and grew us up all at once. The temptation would be too great on our part to take credit for it, and, just like the nine lepers did with Jesus, take off once the work was done, mistakenly thinking we don’t need God for anything else.
I recently re-read Galatians 5 and pondered the fact that those Christian virtues are referred to as fruit. Perhaps it is because they are things that develop gradually and are cultivated only over time and under close supervision of the Vine Dresser. As I’ve thought about Bruno’s de-Chia-petting and my own growth process in God, I am grateful that God is more concerned with lasting fruit than instantaneous fixes, and that as I draw near to Him in the safety of worship, He changes me to be a little bit more like Him, gradually, one pine needle at a time.
THE END
Milk!!!!!!!
Mood: Scratchy
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from overprotective pet owners who think I am in any way mistreating my dog. As long and hard as I’ve tried to understand Bruno’s complex relationship with shrubbery, I have always been at a loss. Besides, if running through the bushes keeps him out of the bars at night, then I won’t complain.
I have a large, hyperactive, over-bearing, extremely extroverted dog named Bruno. He is full of energy and does a good job of keeping me, his introverted, overly analytical momma, from getting too serious. Bruno loves his big backyard, which is overflowing with foliage. I like it that he enjoys running and frolicking outside, as it keeps him slim, trim, and svelte. However, some times his love of nature presents complications.
Last week, Bruno came in from the yard with an entirely new ecosystem growing behind his left ear. I got as best a look at it as I could, and it resembled a nest of pine needles. In fact, in the days that followed, I found the same kind of needle in various spots in his fur. Everywhere else he let me pluck them out, but not behind his ear. I was concerned, because it was obviously making him uncomfortable, and I was worried if I didn’t get it out that the area could become infected, not to mention that, coupled with all the other pine needles he walked in with on a daily basis, he was turning into Chia Dog. Every time I went near him with scissors, clippers, or the Furminator®, he got nervous and bucked his head.
I asked around for advice on what to do to extricate the ear sagebrush. Some said take him to the vet or the groomer. That was out, as it was too expensive at the time. Others said to give him doggy happy pills or Benadryl. That was out as well, as I didn’t want to administer drugs to him without knowing how he would react. Still others said that I should simply make him sit still and demand he obey me. I ask you, my dear blogees, how do I make dogs, or people for that matter, do things they don’t want to do? Apparently I am the only one on the planet without the ability to Jedi mind control the sentient beings around me, so instruction as to how to wield my Jedi powers in such a manner would be most helpful.
After a week of failed attempt after failed attempt to amputate the doggedly unyielding pine needle collection that had now taken up permanent residence on my dog, I had about given up on my mission. Then Saturday night, I crawled into bed to go to sleep, and Bruno hopped into bed with me. He was in the mood to spoon, and spoon we did. He snuggled his head into my side and went to town licking my hand. In a moment of divine inspiration, I went for the bird’s nest with my dry hand and gingerly plucked out a single pine needle. Bruno didn’t even flinch. I went for another single pine needle. Lightning struck twice. As long as Bruno was snuggling and licking my hand, I was able to remove the pine needles one by one, until they were all gone. As far as I could tell, Bruno never knew what hit him.
I learned a lot from that experience about my own pursuit of godliness. There is a lot of emphasis placed in the Church, most unintentional I think, on the big, one-time transformational experience. We talk about getting serious about God, dedicating our lives to Him, and being filled with the Holy Spirit as if they are one-shot events. Yes, some changes do happen overnight, and some miracles occur instantly, but I have found that the experience of becoming holy, maturing, and giving one’s life to God are more often gradual events that happen over the course of time. I honestly don’t think we could even physically stand it if God removed all our character flaws and grew us up all at once. The temptation would be too great on our part to take credit for it, and, just like the nine lepers did with Jesus, take off once the work was done, mistakenly thinking we don’t need God for anything else.
I recently re-read Galatians 5 and pondered the fact that those Christian virtues are referred to as fruit. Perhaps it is because they are things that develop gradually and are cultivated only over time and under close supervision of the Vine Dresser. As I’ve thought about Bruno’s de-Chia-petting and my own growth process in God, I am grateful that God is more concerned with lasting fruit than instantaneous fixes, and that as I draw near to Him in the safety of worship, He changes me to be a little bit more like Him, gradually, one pine needle at a time.
THE END
Milk!!!!!!!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
My Alter Ego by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Transparent
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from any Quentin Tarantino fans, comic book enthusiasts, or anyone born during the 1930s. If you are really upset with me, then I suppose I must take the high road and do the noble thing by blaming my faults on my ancestors.
My parents had me late in life. While most of my friends’ parents were hippies who downed the establishment and blasted Credence Clearwater Revival from their souped-up VW vans, my parents reminisced about the good old days when the evil Axis powers threatened the world with extinction and how they had only cockroaches to eat every night but were happy to have them and didn’t complain. I heard unending tales of woe, tales of the Great Depression, World War II, and spirit-crushing poverty. My parents’ descriptions of growing up in that era were so vivid, and the sense of urgency with which they talked about those times were such that, until I left home at the age of 18, I thought the Depression and World War II were still going on and Franklin Roosevelt was still president. Mom and Dad were part of what is commonly referred to as the Silent Generation, and they had a moral code that differs slightly from that of my generation. They believed we were entitled to nothing except the responsibility to work hard, that a person only slept with one other person, namely their spouse, and that was a lifelong gig, and finally, that a person should never, EVER talk about his or her private life.
A common saying of those born around my parents’ time was, “We don’t talk about what happens behind closed doors.” Growing up, I heard it so much, both from my parents and from others of that generation, that I early on adapted the idea that all of us are two people: the person we show to the public, and the one we are in private, and that these two people are always in opposition.
I didn’t realize until recently how much that duplicity had permeated my thinking and my view of myself, and in the last decade or so, this phenomenon became even more troublesome, and here’s why. We have witnessed a lot of scandals involving celebrities, ministers, and politicians in recent days. When someone is caught doing something they’re not supposed to, particularly if it’s a high profile Christian, people will often say, “That’s the real so-and-so.” For example, let’s say there’s a televangelist who preaches fiery sermons and gives a lot of money to the poor, and then he’s caught with a prostitute. People will point fingers at him and say that the part of him that pays women to sleep with him is the “real” him. Not the part of him that is bold in proclaiming the Gospel or is generous to those in need. The good things are always referred to as the act or show, and the “true” person is always the one that screws up. So, subconsciously, as I witnessed this happen both in people’s observations of others and of me when I made mistakes, I adopted the idea that the good things in me were an illusion and the real me consisted solely of my faults and shortcomings.
In the last year, for various reasons, I have found myself saying quite a bit, to myself and to close friends, “No one would love me if they knew the real me.” Judging from the feedback I have gotten from those to whom I have made this confession, this seems to be a fear everyone experiences. Throughout my life, I had been able to keep that underlying insecurity pretty much at bay, but I learned, much to my dismay, that nothing feeds that fear quite like being in love. Except for a minor crush around 2004, I hadn’t had romantic feelings for anyone since the year 2000. Then to meet someone and experience all those unsettling emotions again, especially given the fact that the man, in my eyes, was completely out of my league, was a recipe for full-blown distress. Every time I saw or talked to him, I could hear the “he’ll never love you once he sees the real you” resounding in my head over my internal loud speaker. My insecurity about the matter reached a fever pitch on Good Friday of this year, so much so that I found myself crying my eyes out to a girl friend at P.F. Chang’s in front of a packed out crowd and one very concerned server. (Alright, the boy thing wasn’t the only reason I was crying, but it was high on the list.) Now, things didn’t work out with the guy, and he would say that it had nothing to do with me, either, but the whole situation of being in love after not having experienced it for so long made me see how deep seeded my fear of vulnerability and “the real me” really was.
The last two months have been fraught with all sorts of challenges, and as I’ve faced uncharted waters, I have become more fearful of the real me, as I had always viewed that woman, and how adversity tends to expose who I am in my heart of hearts. Sometimes, when that thought about the real me being completely repulsive crept in, I would start to ask myself, “Well, what is it that I think is so terrible about me that if exposed, people in general (and potential Boazes in particular) would run away screaming?” I worry too much? Sometimes, when I’m too tired to do the dishes, I let Bruno do them instead? That I’ve been known on occasion to pee while in the shower? That I often incite homicidal tendencies in my men friends because I am relentlessly curious and ask too many questions? Or maybe that, since I live alone, I will drink Diet Dr. Pepper straight out of the two-liter bottle? I have secrets much darker than the ones I just mentioned, and I’m happy to say that everyone to whom I have confessed those secrets, at least in my adult life, are still my friends. I even shared them with the aforementioned love interest, and it didn’t faze him. However, I knew this fear of letting people see the big, bad, real me, was quickly becoming crippling to me, and when I talked about it with God last week, I got an answer I wasn’t expecting.
“Sharon,” God said, “Christ in you is the ‘real’ you.” And that changed everything.
The Old Testament is full of references about the wickedness of man and the deceitfulness of the human heart. All of that is outside of a relationship with Christ, though. When I was reborn into the family of God, I was given a new heart and a new spirit, one that desires to please God and love those around me sincerely. Those besetting sins that hampered me as an unbeliever and tripped me up as a new child of God are no longer an inherent part of me. Because of what Jesus Christ did on the Cross, and the metamorphosis He orchestrated in me, that about me, which reflects God and is in communion with Him is not only the part of me that is real, but also the part of me that is permanent. Perhaps I can illustrate it better this way: before I was a Christian, my sin and all the negative things about me were like birth defects or congenital abnormalities. I was stuck with them. When I got saved, my sin and shortcomings were like the flu: yes, a pain, and sometimes lingering, but just a disease, a curable one, and in no way a reflection of my genetic makeup. Getting a grip on what is truly me and what is the lie makes dealing with sin and negative habits so much easier.
A few years ago, I watched “Kill Bill” (both volumes). I looked past the fact that it was gratuitous violence and the improbability of one really skinny blonde woman single-handedly killing 88 martial arts masters. In one scene, David Carradine’s character is discussing Superman to Uma Thurman’s character. He explains that Superman is different from the majority of other super heroes because he was born with his super powers, whereas most other super heroes got their powers later in life. Therefore, the real Superman isn’t Clark Kent. Rather, it’s the other way around. The real man isn’t the bumbling, clumsy reporter who can’t string a coherent sentence together in front of an attractive woman. The real man is the one who travels faster than a speeding bullet, is more powerful than a locomotive, and leaps tall buildings in a single bound. The real me is the Super Sharon, the recreated, reborn more than a conqueror through Christ who loves me, and I can say, at long last, that the real me looks pretty good.
THE END
Milk!!!!!!
Mood: Transparent
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from any Quentin Tarantino fans, comic book enthusiasts, or anyone born during the 1930s. If you are really upset with me, then I suppose I must take the high road and do the noble thing by blaming my faults on my ancestors.
My parents had me late in life. While most of my friends’ parents were hippies who downed the establishment and blasted Credence Clearwater Revival from their souped-up VW vans, my parents reminisced about the good old days when the evil Axis powers threatened the world with extinction and how they had only cockroaches to eat every night but were happy to have them and didn’t complain. I heard unending tales of woe, tales of the Great Depression, World War II, and spirit-crushing poverty. My parents’ descriptions of growing up in that era were so vivid, and the sense of urgency with which they talked about those times were such that, until I left home at the age of 18, I thought the Depression and World War II were still going on and Franklin Roosevelt was still president. Mom and Dad were part of what is commonly referred to as the Silent Generation, and they had a moral code that differs slightly from that of my generation. They believed we were entitled to nothing except the responsibility to work hard, that a person only slept with one other person, namely their spouse, and that was a lifelong gig, and finally, that a person should never, EVER talk about his or her private life.
A common saying of those born around my parents’ time was, “We don’t talk about what happens behind closed doors.” Growing up, I heard it so much, both from my parents and from others of that generation, that I early on adapted the idea that all of us are two people: the person we show to the public, and the one we are in private, and that these two people are always in opposition.
I didn’t realize until recently how much that duplicity had permeated my thinking and my view of myself, and in the last decade or so, this phenomenon became even more troublesome, and here’s why. We have witnessed a lot of scandals involving celebrities, ministers, and politicians in recent days. When someone is caught doing something they’re not supposed to, particularly if it’s a high profile Christian, people will often say, “That’s the real so-and-so.” For example, let’s say there’s a televangelist who preaches fiery sermons and gives a lot of money to the poor, and then he’s caught with a prostitute. People will point fingers at him and say that the part of him that pays women to sleep with him is the “real” him. Not the part of him that is bold in proclaiming the Gospel or is generous to those in need. The good things are always referred to as the act or show, and the “true” person is always the one that screws up. So, subconsciously, as I witnessed this happen both in people’s observations of others and of me when I made mistakes, I adopted the idea that the good things in me were an illusion and the real me consisted solely of my faults and shortcomings.
In the last year, for various reasons, I have found myself saying quite a bit, to myself and to close friends, “No one would love me if they knew the real me.” Judging from the feedback I have gotten from those to whom I have made this confession, this seems to be a fear everyone experiences. Throughout my life, I had been able to keep that underlying insecurity pretty much at bay, but I learned, much to my dismay, that nothing feeds that fear quite like being in love. Except for a minor crush around 2004, I hadn’t had romantic feelings for anyone since the year 2000. Then to meet someone and experience all those unsettling emotions again, especially given the fact that the man, in my eyes, was completely out of my league, was a recipe for full-blown distress. Every time I saw or talked to him, I could hear the “he’ll never love you once he sees the real you” resounding in my head over my internal loud speaker. My insecurity about the matter reached a fever pitch on Good Friday of this year, so much so that I found myself crying my eyes out to a girl friend at P.F. Chang’s in front of a packed out crowd and one very concerned server. (Alright, the boy thing wasn’t the only reason I was crying, but it was high on the list.) Now, things didn’t work out with the guy, and he would say that it had nothing to do with me, either, but the whole situation of being in love after not having experienced it for so long made me see how deep seeded my fear of vulnerability and “the real me” really was.
The last two months have been fraught with all sorts of challenges, and as I’ve faced uncharted waters, I have become more fearful of the real me, as I had always viewed that woman, and how adversity tends to expose who I am in my heart of hearts. Sometimes, when that thought about the real me being completely repulsive crept in, I would start to ask myself, “Well, what is it that I think is so terrible about me that if exposed, people in general (and potential Boazes in particular) would run away screaming?” I worry too much? Sometimes, when I’m too tired to do the dishes, I let Bruno do them instead? That I’ve been known on occasion to pee while in the shower? That I often incite homicidal tendencies in my men friends because I am relentlessly curious and ask too many questions? Or maybe that, since I live alone, I will drink Diet Dr. Pepper straight out of the two-liter bottle? I have secrets much darker than the ones I just mentioned, and I’m happy to say that everyone to whom I have confessed those secrets, at least in my adult life, are still my friends. I even shared them with the aforementioned love interest, and it didn’t faze him. However, I knew this fear of letting people see the big, bad, real me, was quickly becoming crippling to me, and when I talked about it with God last week, I got an answer I wasn’t expecting.
“Sharon,” God said, “Christ in you is the ‘real’ you.” And that changed everything.
The Old Testament is full of references about the wickedness of man and the deceitfulness of the human heart. All of that is outside of a relationship with Christ, though. When I was reborn into the family of God, I was given a new heart and a new spirit, one that desires to please God and love those around me sincerely. Those besetting sins that hampered me as an unbeliever and tripped me up as a new child of God are no longer an inherent part of me. Because of what Jesus Christ did on the Cross, and the metamorphosis He orchestrated in me, that about me, which reflects God and is in communion with Him is not only the part of me that is real, but also the part of me that is permanent. Perhaps I can illustrate it better this way: before I was a Christian, my sin and all the negative things about me were like birth defects or congenital abnormalities. I was stuck with them. When I got saved, my sin and shortcomings were like the flu: yes, a pain, and sometimes lingering, but just a disease, a curable one, and in no way a reflection of my genetic makeup. Getting a grip on what is truly me and what is the lie makes dealing with sin and negative habits so much easier.
A few years ago, I watched “Kill Bill” (both volumes). I looked past the fact that it was gratuitous violence and the improbability of one really skinny blonde woman single-handedly killing 88 martial arts masters. In one scene, David Carradine’s character is discussing Superman to Uma Thurman’s character. He explains that Superman is different from the majority of other super heroes because he was born with his super powers, whereas most other super heroes got their powers later in life. Therefore, the real Superman isn’t Clark Kent. Rather, it’s the other way around. The real man isn’t the bumbling, clumsy reporter who can’t string a coherent sentence together in front of an attractive woman. The real man is the one who travels faster than a speeding bullet, is more powerful than a locomotive, and leaps tall buildings in a single bound. The real me is the Super Sharon, the recreated, reborn more than a conqueror through Christ who loves me, and I can say, at long last, that the real me looks pretty good.
THE END
Milk!!!!!!
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Back-roading It by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Slow
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from Garmin or any other GPS manufacturer accusing me of advocating the abandonment of the technology. Being regularly directed to drive into ditches and large bodies of water is quite a thrill and much cheaper than going to the amusement park.
I have a great sense of direction and enjoy navigation quite a bit. In fact, many of my female friends have complained on occasion that I give directions like a man. For me, learning to both find my way and give clear and concise directions to others has always been a top priority.
As a child, I had a healthy fear of getting lost, and anyone who knows my family knows exactly why. I have chilling memories of waking up in the car at 2 AM in the bowels of Bayonne, New Jersey because Mom had gotten horribly lost getting from North Arlington, New Jersey to Clifton. For those unfamiliar with New Jersey geography, it is simply a matter of pointing the car northwest and driving eight miles. Instead, Mom pointed the car southeast and drove 12. Dad and my brother were no better, and so I taught myself at a very early age to read maps (and always remember where the car was parked).
I am 50% Jewish, 25% Norwegian, and 25% Syrian. My mom and brother would always brag about what exemplary navigational skills the Vikings had, even though that trait never seemed to manifest itself in my mom or my brother’s ability to get from point A to point B. I found out just recently that the Vikings actually had atrocious senses of direction, and the only reason they made all those great discoveries like Greenland and Minnesota was because they got horribly lost trying to get to some place else. (In their defense, however, they are the best pillagers, pirates, and mass murderers, hands down.) I am also sure my crack seafaring dexterity couldn’t possibly come from the Jewish genes, seeing as it took my forebears over 40 years to get the 200 some odd miles from Egypt to Canaan, a plotting faux pas not even my immediate family or Mr. MaGoo can top. Therefore, given the Biblical accounts of swift invasions and constant back and forths between Israel and their neighboring nations, I must conclude my penchant for helmsmanship must come from the Syrians.
Back in 2007, a friend introduced me to the world of GPS. He said the days of maps and Trip-tiks were over, that I could save myself time, hassle, and trunk space in my car by ditching my map collection and going digital, and so I did. I traded my map box for a smart phone with Google maps. Yes, it was easy, and fun, and for the most part, a time-saver. However, the time it saved me cost me something else in the process.
Last week, a friend invited me over for breakfast in Mount Juliet, a little bedroom community about 15 miles northeast of my home in Nashville, Tennessee. I had just come back from New Jersey after the quick and unexpected death of my mother, so I was feeling a little nostalgic. I broke out a paper map I had of Davidson County and some of the bordering cities. Going against the GPS instructions for the fastest, most efficient route, I took a slightly longer, more circuitous way with my old friend propped up on my steering wheel. Tennessee State Road 171 goes right over Percy Priest Lake, and I’m sorry to say in the almost 11 years I have lived in Nashville, and especially in the 2.5 years I have lived so close to this gorgeous marvel, this was the first time I had taken the time to drive past it and really look at what it was. I had been so busy with life, and then with Mom’s death, that I really needed to take time out for beauty, and that beauty, gave me the strength I needed to persevere.
Technology, for me, has always been a double-edged sword. My GPS lets me travel faster, but as a result, I often miss the important lessons and flashes of inspiration that only come from the road less travelled. My cell phone provides me with the convenience of staying in constant connection with the world, but it also serves as a constant distraction, especially during the times when what I need the most is distance from the world. My electronic address book gives me the option of sending calls from certain numbers directly to voicemail, so I have the choice to deal with certain people on my time table. However, it causes me to miss a lot of opportunities to love sometimes difficult but hurting people, resulting in me missing the lessons of making my life about others and not myself.
I am glad I broke out my maps again. I am glad I am now taking the extra time to plan out where I go and how I get there, instead of letting a piece of mechanics and microchips decide for me. There is a time and place for efficiency and getting places fast, but there is also a time and place for back-roading it, and letting the roads less travelled show me beauty seldom seen and wisdom often overlooked.
THE END
Milk!!!!!!
Mood: Slow
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from Garmin or any other GPS manufacturer accusing me of advocating the abandonment of the technology. Being regularly directed to drive into ditches and large bodies of water is quite a thrill and much cheaper than going to the amusement park.
I have a great sense of direction and enjoy navigation quite a bit. In fact, many of my female friends have complained on occasion that I give directions like a man. For me, learning to both find my way and give clear and concise directions to others has always been a top priority.
As a child, I had a healthy fear of getting lost, and anyone who knows my family knows exactly why. I have chilling memories of waking up in the car at 2 AM in the bowels of Bayonne, New Jersey because Mom had gotten horribly lost getting from North Arlington, New Jersey to Clifton. For those unfamiliar with New Jersey geography, it is simply a matter of pointing the car northwest and driving eight miles. Instead, Mom pointed the car southeast and drove 12. Dad and my brother were no better, and so I taught myself at a very early age to read maps (and always remember where the car was parked).
I am 50% Jewish, 25% Norwegian, and 25% Syrian. My mom and brother would always brag about what exemplary navigational skills the Vikings had, even though that trait never seemed to manifest itself in my mom or my brother’s ability to get from point A to point B. I found out just recently that the Vikings actually had atrocious senses of direction, and the only reason they made all those great discoveries like Greenland and Minnesota was because they got horribly lost trying to get to some place else. (In their defense, however, they are the best pillagers, pirates, and mass murderers, hands down.) I am also sure my crack seafaring dexterity couldn’t possibly come from the Jewish genes, seeing as it took my forebears over 40 years to get the 200 some odd miles from Egypt to Canaan, a plotting faux pas not even my immediate family or Mr. MaGoo can top. Therefore, given the Biblical accounts of swift invasions and constant back and forths between Israel and their neighboring nations, I must conclude my penchant for helmsmanship must come from the Syrians.
Back in 2007, a friend introduced me to the world of GPS. He said the days of maps and Trip-tiks were over, that I could save myself time, hassle, and trunk space in my car by ditching my map collection and going digital, and so I did. I traded my map box for a smart phone with Google maps. Yes, it was easy, and fun, and for the most part, a time-saver. However, the time it saved me cost me something else in the process.
Last week, a friend invited me over for breakfast in Mount Juliet, a little bedroom community about 15 miles northeast of my home in Nashville, Tennessee. I had just come back from New Jersey after the quick and unexpected death of my mother, so I was feeling a little nostalgic. I broke out a paper map I had of Davidson County and some of the bordering cities. Going against the GPS instructions for the fastest, most efficient route, I took a slightly longer, more circuitous way with my old friend propped up on my steering wheel. Tennessee State Road 171 goes right over Percy Priest Lake, and I’m sorry to say in the almost 11 years I have lived in Nashville, and especially in the 2.5 years I have lived so close to this gorgeous marvel, this was the first time I had taken the time to drive past it and really look at what it was. I had been so busy with life, and then with Mom’s death, that I really needed to take time out for beauty, and that beauty, gave me the strength I needed to persevere.
Technology, for me, has always been a double-edged sword. My GPS lets me travel faster, but as a result, I often miss the important lessons and flashes of inspiration that only come from the road less travelled. My cell phone provides me with the convenience of staying in constant connection with the world, but it also serves as a constant distraction, especially during the times when what I need the most is distance from the world. My electronic address book gives me the option of sending calls from certain numbers directly to voicemail, so I have the choice to deal with certain people on my time table. However, it causes me to miss a lot of opportunities to love sometimes difficult but hurting people, resulting in me missing the lessons of making my life about others and not myself.
I am glad I broke out my maps again. I am glad I am now taking the extra time to plan out where I go and how I get there, instead of letting a piece of mechanics and microchips decide for me. There is a time and place for efficiency and getting places fast, but there is also a time and place for back-roading it, and letting the roads less travelled show me beauty seldom seen and wisdom often overlooked.
THE END
Milk!!!!!!
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Toiled and Spun by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Restful.
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear any complaints or griping from Greenpeace or environmental groups. I can assure you that no national parks or wilderness areas were harmed in the blogging of this blog.
Recently, a business associate recommended I watch “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea,” a documentary by Ken Burns of “Unforgivable Blackness” fame. Nature and I have enjoyed a tenuous relationship at best, but I decided to give it a go. I expected to learn about the history of Yellowstone, Yosemite, and the rest of what are America’s most popular vacation destinations. What I didn’t expect was to learn the landscape of my own soul.
The documentary, six DVDs total, tells the long, intricate story of all that went into the creation and maintenance of America’s national parks. There were so many beautiful tales interwoven of the people who sacrificed so much to make sure these scenic wonderlands could be preserved for successive generations. I don’t expect to shed tears when watching nature documentaries, but there were sections of the series, especially the story of John Muir and his relationship with his wife, that moved me so much I went through a whole sequoia’s worth of Kleenex.
I have been hiking a sum total of three times, and all three times, I felt terribly on edge. There has always been something about being out in nature that has made me feel ill at ease. I had chalked that feeling I experienced on the hikes up to different things, but after watching the National Parks documentary, I decided to explore the uneasiness a little closer.
It’s not that I didn’t like the outdoors. I have fond memories of camping and fishing as a kid. However, there has always been something about the outdoors that has both delighted and terrified me. As I prayed about it one night, I was reminded of Matthew 6:25-32 (The Amplified Bible) “Therefore I tell you, stop being perpetually uneasy (anxious and worried) about your life, what you shall eat or what you shall drink; or about your body, what you shall put on. Is not life greater [in quality] than food, and the body [far above and more excellent] than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father keeps feeding them. Are you not worth much more than they? And who of you by worrying and being anxious can add one unit of measure (cubit) to his stature or to the span of his life? And why should you be anxious about clothes? Consider the lilies of the field and learn thoroughly how they grow; they neither toil nor spin. Yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his magnificence (excellence, dignity, and grace) was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and green and tomorrow is tossed into the furnace, will He not much more surely clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not worry and be anxious, saying, What are we going to have to eat? or, What are we going to have to drink? or, What are we going to have to wear? For the Gentiles (heathen) wish for and crave and diligently seek all these things, and your heavenly Father knows well that you need them all.”
And therein laid my problem: I had trouble with nature because it convicted me of my fear of rest and inability to trust God. The birds and the lilies do not strive to muster God’s attention or merit His favor, and yet He takes care of their every need. How often I work myself up into a frenzy of emotions, good works, what have you, so I can feel that I’ve earned the right to God’s love and God’s provision, forgetting too often that God loves me for who I am as his child and not what I do. Nature has no anxiety nor exhibits no care. Nature rests in the fact that the Father of Creation will tend to its every need. That rest not only scares me, but it shames me.
It shames me because, according to Psalm 8, with as glorious as Creation is, God has made man—which includes me—ruler over the works of his hands, and has put everything under our feet. The sun and the moon rise and set at their appointed times with startling faithfulness, yet I, the one God has chosen for his bride, am defined by my unfaithfulness. The canyons and river valleys readily and fully submit to the carving and the purification of the rushing waters, but I, who God refers to as clay in the potter’s hands, fight him every step of the way. Nature keenly observes the times and seasons allotted to it, and moves, adapts, and morphs as God instructs, but I, who is called by God to be his servant and mouthpiece, vacillate and waver, always asking and second-guessing him as to his timing and his ability to sustain me in different circumstances.
I don’t see nature the same now. What was once a source of tension has now become that trusted friend who, though wounding me at first, has proven himself a trusted ally. When I look at the mountains from my window, and see the deer darting across a busy thoroughfare, I am freshly reminded to rest in God’s love, promises, and purposes for me. Once my knees get better, I plan to go for a hike, a solo one, so that maybe I can learn a little more the art of rest that the rest of God’s Creation seems to have down pat.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Mood: Restful.
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear any complaints or griping from Greenpeace or environmental groups. I can assure you that no national parks or wilderness areas were harmed in the blogging of this blog.
Recently, a business associate recommended I watch “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea,” a documentary by Ken Burns of “Unforgivable Blackness” fame. Nature and I have enjoyed a tenuous relationship at best, but I decided to give it a go. I expected to learn about the history of Yellowstone, Yosemite, and the rest of what are America’s most popular vacation destinations. What I didn’t expect was to learn the landscape of my own soul.
The documentary, six DVDs total, tells the long, intricate story of all that went into the creation and maintenance of America’s national parks. There were so many beautiful tales interwoven of the people who sacrificed so much to make sure these scenic wonderlands could be preserved for successive generations. I don’t expect to shed tears when watching nature documentaries, but there were sections of the series, especially the story of John Muir and his relationship with his wife, that moved me so much I went through a whole sequoia’s worth of Kleenex.
I have been hiking a sum total of three times, and all three times, I felt terribly on edge. There has always been something about being out in nature that has made me feel ill at ease. I had chalked that feeling I experienced on the hikes up to different things, but after watching the National Parks documentary, I decided to explore the uneasiness a little closer.
It’s not that I didn’t like the outdoors. I have fond memories of camping and fishing as a kid. However, there has always been something about the outdoors that has both delighted and terrified me. As I prayed about it one night, I was reminded of Matthew 6:25-32 (The Amplified Bible) “Therefore I tell you, stop being perpetually uneasy (anxious and worried) about your life, what you shall eat or what you shall drink; or about your body, what you shall put on. Is not life greater [in quality] than food, and the body [far above and more excellent] than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father keeps feeding them. Are you not worth much more than they? And who of you by worrying and being anxious can add one unit of measure (cubit) to his stature or to the span of his life? And why should you be anxious about clothes? Consider the lilies of the field and learn thoroughly how they grow; they neither toil nor spin. Yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his magnificence (excellence, dignity, and grace) was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and green and tomorrow is tossed into the furnace, will He not much more surely clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not worry and be anxious, saying, What are we going to have to eat? or, What are we going to have to drink? or, What are we going to have to wear? For the Gentiles (heathen) wish for and crave and diligently seek all these things, and your heavenly Father knows well that you need them all.”
And therein laid my problem: I had trouble with nature because it convicted me of my fear of rest and inability to trust God. The birds and the lilies do not strive to muster God’s attention or merit His favor, and yet He takes care of their every need. How often I work myself up into a frenzy of emotions, good works, what have you, so I can feel that I’ve earned the right to God’s love and God’s provision, forgetting too often that God loves me for who I am as his child and not what I do. Nature has no anxiety nor exhibits no care. Nature rests in the fact that the Father of Creation will tend to its every need. That rest not only scares me, but it shames me.
It shames me because, according to Psalm 8, with as glorious as Creation is, God has made man—which includes me—ruler over the works of his hands, and has put everything under our feet. The sun and the moon rise and set at their appointed times with startling faithfulness, yet I, the one God has chosen for his bride, am defined by my unfaithfulness. The canyons and river valleys readily and fully submit to the carving and the purification of the rushing waters, but I, who God refers to as clay in the potter’s hands, fight him every step of the way. Nature keenly observes the times and seasons allotted to it, and moves, adapts, and morphs as God instructs, but I, who is called by God to be his servant and mouthpiece, vacillate and waver, always asking and second-guessing him as to his timing and his ability to sustain me in different circumstances.
I don’t see nature the same now. What was once a source of tension has now become that trusted friend who, though wounding me at first, has proven himself a trusted ally. When I look at the mountains from my window, and see the deer darting across a busy thoroughfare, I am freshly reminded to rest in God’s love, promises, and purposes for me. Once my knees get better, I plan to go for a hike, a solo one, so that maybe I can learn a little more the art of rest that the rest of God’s Creation seems to have down pat.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Lentils and the Valley Girl by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Hungry
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from the State of Indiana or any irate Hoosiers who think I’m making fun of the state. The fact that Indiana has a 3 to 1 pig-to-person ratio, in the pigs’ favor, was one of the very things that drew me to move there in the first place.
In August of 1992, I moved from New Jersey to Indiana to go to college. In 2000, I moved from Indiana to my present location in Tennessee. In April, I had flown to Indiana to see an old friend graduate from college. The time on the plane gave me a lot of time for reflection. I remember looking out the window of the plane as we approached Indianapolis. The time was well after 11 p.m. and the intrusion of the city lights into the night sky had me mesmerized. I would liken it to a giant spider web up against slate, with each strand of the web set ablaze to emanate the loveliest amber glow. I did not find my first impression of the Hoosier State almost twenty years ago nearly as enchanting, but then again, I am thankfully not the same person. I came to Indiana fresh out of high school, an arrogant, know-it-all, snot-nosed, bratty girl. After eight years of letting God work out many of the kinks in my character, I am happy to say I am now the arrogant, know-it-all, snot-nosed, bratty woman my readers see today. *grin* In all seriousness, though, on this recent visit, I was reminded of two very important lessons God taught me during the eight years I had lived there, lessons I work to keep at the forefront of my mind.
The Lesson of the Lentils (Sacrificing Future Blessing for Immediate Gratification)
The Bible is full of stories about those who gave up on God’s Plan for their lives because they didn’t want to wait. Genesis 25 tells the story of how Esau sold his birthright as firstborn son to his younger brother Jacob in exchange a bowl of lentil soup. Several generations later, the Israelites, after they had left slavery and bondage in Egypt, grew restless in the desert and despised the journey which God had planned for them. They forgot that they were God’s chosen people. They forgot all the wonderful miracles God had done in their midst. They despised the Promised Land—their birthright, if you will—because the journey to get there was harder than they initially thought. So they murmured to God and dared voice the idea that they were better off in Egypt.
The problem with impatience and unwillingness to wait on God’s promises is it condemns us to a life of the commonplace and tortuous and to mind-numbing drudgery. Esau’s desire for a regular meal made him forfeit the opportunity to be father of God’s peculiar people. The Israelites’ desire to have what they wanted to eat when they wanted to eat it cost them their legacy, their land, and their lives. They longed for the every day food they had grown accustomed to in Egypt instead of the supernatural sustenance God provided for them in the desert. Elisabeth Elliot said in her book Passion and Purity, “Through affairs of the heart, God uncovers our true intentions: '...whether or not it was in your heart to keep his commandments. He humbled you and made you hungry; then he fed you on manna...' But it was not manna the people wanted. It was leeks and onions and garlic. It was meat and bread, wine and oil--ordinary food.” Leeks. Onions. Garlic. Meat. Bread. Wine. Oil. Lentils.
Why did Esau and the Israelites forsake so much in exchange for so little? They all claimed they did so because they were starving. How many times do we say “I’m starving” when we’re really not? How many times do we make a matter of instant gratification the end of the world when it’s not? Would Esau really have died if he hadn’t eaten that bowl of soup? Will we really die if we don’t have sex right now, instead of waiting for the time and context in which God says sex is the most satisfying? Will our whole world really come crashing down on us if we don’t “make something happen” when God has told us to wait concerning the matter?
New Jersey was my lentil stew; New Jersey was also my Egypt, the place I would’ve gladly stayed because to live in slavery seemed easier than waiting and walking all the time it would’ve taken to get to the Promised Land. I could’ve let immediate gratification prevent me from obtaining long-term holiness and maturity; the pleasure of the latter two would sustain me long after the savorings of a quick meal, which would’ve fed my body but killed my spirit.
Valley Girl (Sacrificing God’s Calling for Fear of Suffering)
I hated Indiana. My first three months there were quite miserable. I could only find fault with my surroundings. One of the things I hated most about it was how flat it was. I was situated in the river valleys of Allen County, Indiana, and I longed for the mountains in New Jersey, which I loved to drive up every chance I got. My bad attitude about where God had placed me continued until I went back to New Jersey for Thanksgiving. I can’t say that New Jersey was a different place, but I had become a different person. During that week, I remembered very clearly all the reasons I had left New Jersey in the first place. Being back in Egypt, in the presence of Pharaoh and his slave drivers, reminded me that even the most foreign and strange of territories, like the corn fields of Indiana, was better than being demoted again to a slave.
When God told me that I would be in Indiana long term, I asked him why. He said I needed to be broken. He said I had many wounds in me, wounds that were like infected splinters all over my body. He said He was going to remove all those splinters in me one by one, and Indiana was the place to do it.
That was hard. The bareness of the landscape did not help. Then one day, I read a story in the Bible I had never seen before. In 1 Kings 20, the Israelites are attacked by the Syrians, but quickly defeat them. The Syrians tell their king, “Israel’s God is a god of the hills. That is why, since we fought them in the hills, they defeated us. However, if we fight them in the plains, surely we will defeat them.” Then God sent a messenger to the Israelites and told them, “Because the Syrians say I am a God of the hills but not a God of the valleys, when they attack you again, I will surely defeat them.”
I had learned to trust God in the hills of New Jersey, where all was familiar and simple to me. I had not learned to trust God in the plains of Indiana, where I did not have a grip on anything. God had to prove to me that He was God in my life everywhere, in the easy places and the difficult.
One day after a period of particularly rough testing, I was driving through the plains and along the edge of one of the many Indiana river valleys. I commented to myself how flat it was in the valley. God said to me, “Yes. You are here in the valley because this is where the really fertile soil is.”
The view is pretty and comforting from the mountaintops. However, the air is also thinner, and it is harder for life to grow. The valley, the flat places, is where the earth is richest, and can foster growth the easiest. At the time, I didn’t need a picture-postcard view of the world. I needed to fall into the ground like a grain of wheat and die so that I could be brought to eternal, abundant life.
So, these were the lessons of the lentils and the valley girl. When I went to visit Indiana a few weeks ago, I was coming from a different kind of Egypt, another bowl of lentil soup, something God had been telling me to give up for a long time. I had exaggerated my hunger. The temptation to stay in Egypt was overwhelming. Leaving that Egypt felt like death. I remembered, though, that I am called to pick up my Cross and die to myself every day. I remembered, too, that the death in the fertile soil of the valley beyond the Red Sea is always in exchange for a deeper, abiding, greater life in Him.
In the other Egypt, too, I felt it. I felt the cracks of the whips of Pharaoh’s taskmasters on my back, making their insatiable demands and offering me nothing in return except a life of slavery. I felt torn between the familiarity, but drudgery, of Egypt, and the valley, which God once again was asking me to cross. I come from a long line of compromisers, ones who fear the valley and the pruning it demands of its residents. Jesus reminded me, though, that I have been redeemed from the fruitless way of living passed down to me by my forefathers, not with corruptible things, such as silver and gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, and if I chose to stay in Egypt, to live only once, but die twice, then I was essentially acting as if Christ died for nothing.
I did not start my initial exodus from Egypt alone. The number of pilgrims gets smaller and smaller all the time, though. Some never crossed the Red Sea. Some have crossed many times, but always run back due to fear. Some are still wandering the desert, because they’re so hung up on the lack of lentils they are missing the glory and wonder of the manna, as well as the privilege of being hand-fed by God. Still others have reached the Promised Land, but in their minds and hearts have never left Egypt.
Two things I have learned in Indiana were to not only go for the Promised Land, but to embrace the purification process in the time I spend journeying to the Promised Land. The Israelites despised God’s promises out of fear and a desire to be like the heathen nations around them. Esau forsook his birthright for a bowl of soup. However, I am not a daughter of Esau. I am a daughter of Jacob. He wasn’t afraid to embrace God’s promises. He wasn’t afraid to wrestle with God in order to gain a new name and a new heart. As for me? Well, I want to be just like my dad.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Mood: Hungry
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from the State of Indiana or any irate Hoosiers who think I’m making fun of the state. The fact that Indiana has a 3 to 1 pig-to-person ratio, in the pigs’ favor, was one of the very things that drew me to move there in the first place.
In August of 1992, I moved from New Jersey to Indiana to go to college. In 2000, I moved from Indiana to my present location in Tennessee. In April, I had flown to Indiana to see an old friend graduate from college. The time on the plane gave me a lot of time for reflection. I remember looking out the window of the plane as we approached Indianapolis. The time was well after 11 p.m. and the intrusion of the city lights into the night sky had me mesmerized. I would liken it to a giant spider web up against slate, with each strand of the web set ablaze to emanate the loveliest amber glow. I did not find my first impression of the Hoosier State almost twenty years ago nearly as enchanting, but then again, I am thankfully not the same person. I came to Indiana fresh out of high school, an arrogant, know-it-all, snot-nosed, bratty girl. After eight years of letting God work out many of the kinks in my character, I am happy to say I am now the arrogant, know-it-all, snot-nosed, bratty woman my readers see today. *grin* In all seriousness, though, on this recent visit, I was reminded of two very important lessons God taught me during the eight years I had lived there, lessons I work to keep at the forefront of my mind.
The Lesson of the Lentils (Sacrificing Future Blessing for Immediate Gratification)
The Bible is full of stories about those who gave up on God’s Plan for their lives because they didn’t want to wait. Genesis 25 tells the story of how Esau sold his birthright as firstborn son to his younger brother Jacob in exchange a bowl of lentil soup. Several generations later, the Israelites, after they had left slavery and bondage in Egypt, grew restless in the desert and despised the journey which God had planned for them. They forgot that they were God’s chosen people. They forgot all the wonderful miracles God had done in their midst. They despised the Promised Land—their birthright, if you will—because the journey to get there was harder than they initially thought. So they murmured to God and dared voice the idea that they were better off in Egypt.
The problem with impatience and unwillingness to wait on God’s promises is it condemns us to a life of the commonplace and tortuous and to mind-numbing drudgery. Esau’s desire for a regular meal made him forfeit the opportunity to be father of God’s peculiar people. The Israelites’ desire to have what they wanted to eat when they wanted to eat it cost them their legacy, their land, and their lives. They longed for the every day food they had grown accustomed to in Egypt instead of the supernatural sustenance God provided for them in the desert. Elisabeth Elliot said in her book Passion and Purity, “Through affairs of the heart, God uncovers our true intentions: '...whether or not it was in your heart to keep his commandments. He humbled you and made you hungry; then he fed you on manna...' But it was not manna the people wanted. It was leeks and onions and garlic. It was meat and bread, wine and oil--ordinary food.” Leeks. Onions. Garlic. Meat. Bread. Wine. Oil. Lentils.
Why did Esau and the Israelites forsake so much in exchange for so little? They all claimed they did so because they were starving. How many times do we say “I’m starving” when we’re really not? How many times do we make a matter of instant gratification the end of the world when it’s not? Would Esau really have died if he hadn’t eaten that bowl of soup? Will we really die if we don’t have sex right now, instead of waiting for the time and context in which God says sex is the most satisfying? Will our whole world really come crashing down on us if we don’t “make something happen” when God has told us to wait concerning the matter?
New Jersey was my lentil stew; New Jersey was also my Egypt, the place I would’ve gladly stayed because to live in slavery seemed easier than waiting and walking all the time it would’ve taken to get to the Promised Land. I could’ve let immediate gratification prevent me from obtaining long-term holiness and maturity; the pleasure of the latter two would sustain me long after the savorings of a quick meal, which would’ve fed my body but killed my spirit.
Valley Girl (Sacrificing God’s Calling for Fear of Suffering)
I hated Indiana. My first three months there were quite miserable. I could only find fault with my surroundings. One of the things I hated most about it was how flat it was. I was situated in the river valleys of Allen County, Indiana, and I longed for the mountains in New Jersey, which I loved to drive up every chance I got. My bad attitude about where God had placed me continued until I went back to New Jersey for Thanksgiving. I can’t say that New Jersey was a different place, but I had become a different person. During that week, I remembered very clearly all the reasons I had left New Jersey in the first place. Being back in Egypt, in the presence of Pharaoh and his slave drivers, reminded me that even the most foreign and strange of territories, like the corn fields of Indiana, was better than being demoted again to a slave.
When God told me that I would be in Indiana long term, I asked him why. He said I needed to be broken. He said I had many wounds in me, wounds that were like infected splinters all over my body. He said He was going to remove all those splinters in me one by one, and Indiana was the place to do it.
That was hard. The bareness of the landscape did not help. Then one day, I read a story in the Bible I had never seen before. In 1 Kings 20, the Israelites are attacked by the Syrians, but quickly defeat them. The Syrians tell their king, “Israel’s God is a god of the hills. That is why, since we fought them in the hills, they defeated us. However, if we fight them in the plains, surely we will defeat them.” Then God sent a messenger to the Israelites and told them, “Because the Syrians say I am a God of the hills but not a God of the valleys, when they attack you again, I will surely defeat them.”
I had learned to trust God in the hills of New Jersey, where all was familiar and simple to me. I had not learned to trust God in the plains of Indiana, where I did not have a grip on anything. God had to prove to me that He was God in my life everywhere, in the easy places and the difficult.
One day after a period of particularly rough testing, I was driving through the plains and along the edge of one of the many Indiana river valleys. I commented to myself how flat it was in the valley. God said to me, “Yes. You are here in the valley because this is where the really fertile soil is.”
The view is pretty and comforting from the mountaintops. However, the air is also thinner, and it is harder for life to grow. The valley, the flat places, is where the earth is richest, and can foster growth the easiest. At the time, I didn’t need a picture-postcard view of the world. I needed to fall into the ground like a grain of wheat and die so that I could be brought to eternal, abundant life.
So, these were the lessons of the lentils and the valley girl. When I went to visit Indiana a few weeks ago, I was coming from a different kind of Egypt, another bowl of lentil soup, something God had been telling me to give up for a long time. I had exaggerated my hunger. The temptation to stay in Egypt was overwhelming. Leaving that Egypt felt like death. I remembered, though, that I am called to pick up my Cross and die to myself every day. I remembered, too, that the death in the fertile soil of the valley beyond the Red Sea is always in exchange for a deeper, abiding, greater life in Him.
In the other Egypt, too, I felt it. I felt the cracks of the whips of Pharaoh’s taskmasters on my back, making their insatiable demands and offering me nothing in return except a life of slavery. I felt torn between the familiarity, but drudgery, of Egypt, and the valley, which God once again was asking me to cross. I come from a long line of compromisers, ones who fear the valley and the pruning it demands of its residents. Jesus reminded me, though, that I have been redeemed from the fruitless way of living passed down to me by my forefathers, not with corruptible things, such as silver and gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, and if I chose to stay in Egypt, to live only once, but die twice, then I was essentially acting as if Christ died for nothing.
I did not start my initial exodus from Egypt alone. The number of pilgrims gets smaller and smaller all the time, though. Some never crossed the Red Sea. Some have crossed many times, but always run back due to fear. Some are still wandering the desert, because they’re so hung up on the lack of lentils they are missing the glory and wonder of the manna, as well as the privilege of being hand-fed by God. Still others have reached the Promised Land, but in their minds and hearts have never left Egypt.
Two things I have learned in Indiana were to not only go for the Promised Land, but to embrace the purification process in the time I spend journeying to the Promised Land. The Israelites despised God’s promises out of fear and a desire to be like the heathen nations around them. Esau forsook his birthright for a bowl of soup. However, I am not a daughter of Esau. I am a daughter of Jacob. He wasn’t afraid to embrace God’s promises. He wasn’t afraid to wrestle with God in order to gain a new name and a new heart. As for me? Well, I want to be just like my dad.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The Bloodhound by Sharon Lurie
© 2011 David's Harp and Pen
Mood: Humbled
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from Old Testament scholars accusing me of dissing Leviticus. On the contrary, my hope is to increase its reader traffic and finally give the book the street cred it deserves.
Most Christians and Jews I know read through the Bible/Tanakh each year. My close cronies and I usually dread when we happen up on the Book of Leviticus. The book is a bit of a cross between an annotated legal code and a horror novel. There are nonstop rules, codes, and statutes, along with exceptions to the aforementioned. For those who have never read it, nor have plans to, let me try to replicate some of the themes in a modern fashion to give you an idea of the overall theme of Leviticus’s contents:
“If man steals his neighbor’s Sony PSP, the man shall be required to compensate his neighbor sevenfold. If he stole the PSP on the Sabbath, he shall repay his neighbor fourteen fold. If he stole the PSP on a holy or feast day, he shall repay his neighbor a hundredfold. If it was a holy or feast day AND the Sabbath, the man shall have his right hand cut off, but he can keep all his money. However, if the man stole his neighbor’s PSP by accident (it fell into his grain sack while he visited his neighbor, and no one saw it), he shall run to the nearest city of refuge, where he will be safe until he can stand before the High Gaming Priest. Then, whether he stole the PSP by accident or on purpose, he shall sacrifice a Tickle Me Elmo doll and a flock of Chia Pets. If he cannot afford a Tickle Me Elmo doll and a flock of Chia Pets, he may instead offer a Beanie Baby. If he cannot afford a Beanie Baby, he may offer an apple pie, topped with Cool Whip. Also, if a man steals his neighbor’s Nintendo DS, no punishment will befall him, as he has saved his neighbor from an inferior handheld gaming experience.”
And that’s the gist of it. Some peruse the third installment of the works of Moses and see nothing more than an antiquated rulebook of a theocratic society with no relevance to today’s world. When I got around to Leviticus in my yearly Bible reading this year, I expected I would feel the same way about Leviticus as I always had: I would be overwhelmed by the ancient legal mumbo-jumbo and freaked out by the stories in which God rolled out the death penalty for just about everything, and in grand fashion (not unlike the State of Texas today). This go around was different, however. Very different.
As I read each scheduled section for each day, I was reminded, as always, of the extremely tedious nature of the book. For the first time, however, I finally made its connection with the tedious nature of sin. Our rebellion against God and our transgressions from His Law always have consequences much more involved and far-reaching than we realize when we choose to sin. Although God fully and freely grants us forgiveness the moment we offer to Him total and sincere repentance, the repercussions of our actions more often than not have consequences that we must still contend with long after the fact. The procedures for righting wrongs in Leviticus are long, involved, and cumbersome. Maybe one of the whole points of having the whole thing written down for us to read even today is so we would see, in light of the procedure to set things right when we sin, that it is just better not to sin in the first place.
One day I was reading a certain passage in Leviticus that talked about various animal sacrifices. My dog Bruno was sitting at my feet. I love Bruno very much. He is not just a pet, he is a companion. I thought for a moment what it would’ve been like if I lived in the times of Leviticus. What if I had sinned and had to sacrifice Bruno in order to be forgiven by God? I pictured myself having to go to the tabernacle. I imagined having to turn Bruno over to the priest. I envisioned the look of terror on my poor pooch’s face as he was led to the altar against his will, looking back at me as if to ask why I had betrayed him in such a fashion. A flood of anguish came over me as I hugged my dog as tightly as I could, realizing maybe for the first time the cost of sin is never paid only by the person who commits it. (Now, let’s be realistic here, before anyone reports me to PETA, I would never sacrifice my poor, unsuspecting canine. He’s not kosher, for starters. Second, in light of Bruno’s own sins, God would require me to be sacrificed for Bruno’s sins before he would ever be accepted as a sacrifice for mine. I mean, Bruno’s crimes against the neighbors’ shrubs and the Nashville critter population ALONE—but I digress.)
In all seriousness, though, it is startling to think about the amount of blood required to atone for sins in Leviticus when it was all woefully insufficient to take away or forgive sins in the first place. Not only was the blood of animals powerless to forgive sin, it offered no assistance to prevent those who made the offerings from sinning in the future. Hebrews 10 says it all: “But [as it is] these sacrifices annually bring a fresh remembrance of sins [to be atoned for], because the blood of bulls and goats is powerless to take sins away[. . .] [in accordance with this will [of God], we have been made holy (consecrated and sanctified) through the offering made once for all of the body of Jesus Christ (the Anointed One).”
When I read Leviticus now, it makes me very happy. As I read within its pages the vast scope of the consequences of sin, I am reminded of the even greater significance and thoroughness of Jesus’s blood, a better (and final) sacrifice in that it not only atones for all sin for all time, it gives me the power to walk in mercy and obedience, which God said is more desirous to Him than the blood and fat of animals anyway. I am grateful for that perfect, complete offering of the Lamb of God. And, although he couldn’t tell you in so many words, so is Bruno.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
Mood: Humbled
DISCLAIMERS: This blog is based, in part, upon actual events and people. Certain actions and characters have been dramatized and fictionalized, but are inspired by true events and real people. Certain other characters, events, and names used herein are entirely fictitious. Any similarity of those fictional characters or events to the name, attributes, or background of any real person, living or dead, or to any actual events is coincidental and unintentional, so I don’t want to hear from Old Testament scholars accusing me of dissing Leviticus. On the contrary, my hope is to increase its reader traffic and finally give the book the street cred it deserves.
Most Christians and Jews I know read through the Bible/Tanakh each year. My close cronies and I usually dread when we happen up on the Book of Leviticus. The book is a bit of a cross between an annotated legal code and a horror novel. There are nonstop rules, codes, and statutes, along with exceptions to the aforementioned. For those who have never read it, nor have plans to, let me try to replicate some of the themes in a modern fashion to give you an idea of the overall theme of Leviticus’s contents:
“If man steals his neighbor’s Sony PSP, the man shall be required to compensate his neighbor sevenfold. If he stole the PSP on the Sabbath, he shall repay his neighbor fourteen fold. If he stole the PSP on a holy or feast day, he shall repay his neighbor a hundredfold. If it was a holy or feast day AND the Sabbath, the man shall have his right hand cut off, but he can keep all his money. However, if the man stole his neighbor’s PSP by accident (it fell into his grain sack while he visited his neighbor, and no one saw it), he shall run to the nearest city of refuge, where he will be safe until he can stand before the High Gaming Priest. Then, whether he stole the PSP by accident or on purpose, he shall sacrifice a Tickle Me Elmo doll and a flock of Chia Pets. If he cannot afford a Tickle Me Elmo doll and a flock of Chia Pets, he may instead offer a Beanie Baby. If he cannot afford a Beanie Baby, he may offer an apple pie, topped with Cool Whip. Also, if a man steals his neighbor’s Nintendo DS, no punishment will befall him, as he has saved his neighbor from an inferior handheld gaming experience.”
And that’s the gist of it. Some peruse the third installment of the works of Moses and see nothing more than an antiquated rulebook of a theocratic society with no relevance to today’s world. When I got around to Leviticus in my yearly Bible reading this year, I expected I would feel the same way about Leviticus as I always had: I would be overwhelmed by the ancient legal mumbo-jumbo and freaked out by the stories in which God rolled out the death penalty for just about everything, and in grand fashion (not unlike the State of Texas today). This go around was different, however. Very different.
As I read each scheduled section for each day, I was reminded, as always, of the extremely tedious nature of the book. For the first time, however, I finally made its connection with the tedious nature of sin. Our rebellion against God and our transgressions from His Law always have consequences much more involved and far-reaching than we realize when we choose to sin. Although God fully and freely grants us forgiveness the moment we offer to Him total and sincere repentance, the repercussions of our actions more often than not have consequences that we must still contend with long after the fact. The procedures for righting wrongs in Leviticus are long, involved, and cumbersome. Maybe one of the whole points of having the whole thing written down for us to read even today is so we would see, in light of the procedure to set things right when we sin, that it is just better not to sin in the first place.
One day I was reading a certain passage in Leviticus that talked about various animal sacrifices. My dog Bruno was sitting at my feet. I love Bruno very much. He is not just a pet, he is a companion. I thought for a moment what it would’ve been like if I lived in the times of Leviticus. What if I had sinned and had to sacrifice Bruno in order to be forgiven by God? I pictured myself having to go to the tabernacle. I imagined having to turn Bruno over to the priest. I envisioned the look of terror on my poor pooch’s face as he was led to the altar against his will, looking back at me as if to ask why I had betrayed him in such a fashion. A flood of anguish came over me as I hugged my dog as tightly as I could, realizing maybe for the first time the cost of sin is never paid only by the person who commits it. (Now, let’s be realistic here, before anyone reports me to PETA, I would never sacrifice my poor, unsuspecting canine. He’s not kosher, for starters. Second, in light of Bruno’s own sins, God would require me to be sacrificed for Bruno’s sins before he would ever be accepted as a sacrifice for mine. I mean, Bruno’s crimes against the neighbors’ shrubs and the Nashville critter population ALONE—but I digress.)
In all seriousness, though, it is startling to think about the amount of blood required to atone for sins in Leviticus when it was all woefully insufficient to take away or forgive sins in the first place. Not only was the blood of animals powerless to forgive sin, it offered no assistance to prevent those who made the offerings from sinning in the future. Hebrews 10 says it all: “But [as it is] these sacrifices annually bring a fresh remembrance of sins [to be atoned for], because the blood of bulls and goats is powerless to take sins away[. . .] [in accordance with this will [of God], we have been made holy (consecrated and sanctified) through the offering made once for all of the body of Jesus Christ (the Anointed One).”
When I read Leviticus now, it makes me very happy. As I read within its pages the vast scope of the consequences of sin, I am reminded of the even greater significance and thoroughness of Jesus’s blood, a better (and final) sacrifice in that it not only atones for all sin for all time, it gives me the power to walk in mercy and obedience, which God said is more desirous to Him than the blood and fat of animals anyway. I am grateful for that perfect, complete offering of the Lamb of God. And, although he couldn’t tell you in so many words, so is Bruno.
THE END
Milk!!!!!
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