All In The Becoming

The narrative could turn your stomach or break your heart. The first few verses of Ezekiel 16 illustrate for us a newborn baby, squirming and kicking on the side of the road; slick, sticky and matted in its afterbirth complete with dangling umbilical cord, having been discarded as if it was yesterday's trash. It's not exactly the stuff of lullabies but, then again, I've often wondered why wee ones have to fall asleep to Lizzie Borden taking an axe, Humptys falling off walls and breaking to bits, going up the stairs and running into men who aren't there, and spiders frightening Miss Muffet who is minding her own business with a meal of curds and whey…

What are curds and whey anyway? Oh well, back to the story at hand.

I know the foundling in a ditch is a picture of Israel and her difficult beginnings and that God would not cast her away but rather embrace, nurture and transform her into a splendiforous queen worthy of admiration and awe. I know it has ancient implications but as I heard the story again today, my heart heard a new melody, as though the Spirit were making it a modern love song. Our song!

The Lover of my soul showed me in His own intimate way that once upon a time He came by and saw me abandoned in the drainage ditch of life, covered in sewer water and runoff, crying for mercy because no one "cared a fig" for me (Ezekiel 16:5, The Message). He lifted me from the mire and cut off my umbilical cord thus ending my attachments to the old life and washed me thoroughly by His kindly Word (John 15:3) and royal proclamation.

The beauty of the next progressions mirror the transforming Life of going from grace upon grace, glory to glory. The once wretched life, nurseless and useless on the side of the road, is now brought into a palace, offered care and breeding and shown the dainties and pleasures of royalty. To be sure, there is still some of the urchin that must be truncated and defeated, but all in due time. It's all in the becoming.

The once-orphan (me) struggles to understand such grace and often misuses it. Carelessly abuses it. Fights against it and thumbs its nose at it. But can NEVER get away from it (glory be!)! The Divine Lover has set His affection on me and will never retract it. I am my Beloved's and my Beloved is mine (Song of Songs 6:3). His grace is always in the Home and His table is always spread for me. I have been captured and I find that I love the freedom of its imprisonment!

As I grow, I find that I can little remember the sinister urchin rhymes that used to plague my dreams as the LoveSong has begun to take over, streaming all within my bloodways and in each and every breath. I scarce recall kicking against the Holy and straining to return to my damnable ditch. How could I? Why would I? I laugh now as I think of the times I wanted to sit clean and pretty at the Feast but wear my stained and worn clothes around the palace. For some inexplicable reason, I needed to feel the itch of the old life against my skin.

If you were to look into my closet today (and I took a peek in yours), you'd see it overtaken by the garments of righteousness as it is the Lover of my soul who clothes me. You can dig around and find some of the old stuff packed away and perhaps an outfit or two that still get worn (foolishly) from time to time. But the sovereign of my heart is coaxing me away from all vestiges of the past and His beauty and delight in me give me the power to change.

It's all in the becoming.

This sixteenth chapter shows me that the progressions are palpable. Glory to glory. Looking back, I see bouts with head lice and pimples but my head is wearing the tiara of acceptance and forgiveness. I've struggled through seasons of rebellion, rowdiness and raunchiness, but I am covered with the new gowns of joy and righteousness. There is now a beauty that is coming forth in me that is not of my own doing. It is the likeness of the Son for whom I have been prepared.

One day His fullness will be so etched on my face as I will be in His presence and the consummation of our union will be realized. I will be like Him, for I shall behold Him as He is (1 John 3:2)! For now, the joy I have is in the becoming, the anticipation of what lies ahead. And my story joins yours in that once upon a time, the God of Love passed by, saw us in our vomit and offal and mercifully gave us a reason to "Live!" (Ezek. 16:6)

"And I passed by you and looked on you…I spread my skirt over you and covered your nakedness. And I swore to you and entered into a covenant with you…and you became Mine. I washed you with water; I washed away your blood from you, and I anointed you with oil. I also clothed you with embroidered work, and I shod you with dugog* sandals. And I wrapped you in fine linen and I covered you with silk. And I adorned you with ornaments and I put bracelets on your hands and a chain on your neck. And I put a ring in your nose and earrings in your ears, and a beautiful crown on your head. And you were adorned with gold and silver…you were exceedingly beautiful…"
(Ezekiel 16:8-13, Modern King James)

"Exceedingly beautiful." That's how God sees me too. And you as well, if you know Him and have been washed with Royal water and Righteous blood. We're becoming who God sees us to be and thanks be to God that we're a long ways from the ditch on the side of the road.

*a sea mammal

A Kiss Where It Hurts

(The following is an article I wrote several weeks ago, during a six-week stay at Shepherd's rehab center)

I saw Jesus today.

Oddly enough, He quite resembled a middle-aged mother sitting beside her disabled son. I found myself directly behind them at a Shepherd Center's chapel service today and witnessed her do the most amazing, yet simple thing as the speaker challenged us to "taste life again." With her arm resolutely arcing around her boy's shoulders, holding on to him as for dear life and seemingly oblivious to the homily and all else around her, she leaned into him gently and offered a well-placed kiss squarely on his left shoulder.

Her son had recently joined the ranks of quadriplegia and his high-level neck injury left him with little control over nine-tenths of his body. Even his head had to be stabilized with a network of headrests attached to his wheelchair, each one supporting a separate zone so that his head would not tip from side to side.

What struck me about this tender vignette was that the mother zeroed in on the one place her son could feel and placed her kiss there. Once was not enough, however, not for this mother. A few moments later, my already misting eyes beheld her turn again to her son and look up at him. He was sitting much higher than she, but no bother. Not for this mother. She leaned in once more and found again that place on his shoulder but this time the kiss lingered a few moments longer. The son couldn't turn his head to respond but I could still see the upward flexing of a cheek muscle from behind and knew that he must have been sporting a grin a mile wide!

For this mother, sitting beside her son was not nearly enough. She needed to kiss him to let him know that she was there, that she cared and that she was not going anywhere.

I couldn't tell you everything the chaplain said this afternoon but I can sure tell you the sermon my eyes witnessed, verbatim, because I just did. As I rolled away from the auditorium in my own wheelchair, I found myself in a conversation with the Lord. In all actuality it was a monologue because my Father was doing all the talking. He was using that visual aid to let me know that He can be found most easily where there is pain, despair and heartsickness.

"I AM in this place," He spoke into my spirit as I navigated the dogleg of the long hallway known as the Bridge. The words were kind and tender, not intoned with "and don't you ever forget it!" but carried with them the lilt of a self-binding promise. And just so I couldn't mistake His intentions, the Great Physician bent even closer to announce, "I AM in every room and on every floor of this hospital."

Shepherd Center is one of the finest rehabilitation institutions in the world. It used to service only spinal cord injuries but has in recent years expanded to serve the needs of those with acquired brain injuries and MS. In some of its patient rooms there might be closed fists thrusts toward the heavens from those who curse the ways of the Lord, there are certainly those who shrug off deity altogether or deny His existence and worship at the altar of science.

But in such a place, God is at His best as He kisses the shoulders of the hurting. He cannot be spurned or pushed away. Nosiree. Not when there are wounds to bind and broken hearts to mend. Like a doting mother bending over a scraped knee or attending to a fevered brow, He knows just where to kiss it to make it feel better.

"He heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds." (Psalm 147:3)

If you have been waylaid by life and left bleeding on the side of the road or even if your pain is not nearly so graphic and traumatic but you are hurting nonetheless and numb to any sensation of hope, get ready to hear the Lord say to your wounded spirit, "I AM here." And get ready to feel His kiss where it hurts.

Consider these kisses from a Friend:

"Casting all your cares (anxieties, worries) upon the Lord, for He cares for you." (1 Peter 5:7)
"We have a Great High Priest who can sympathize with our weaknesses…" (Hebrews 4:15)
"In all our grief (distress, affliction), He too is grieved (distressed, afflicted)." (Isaiah 63:9)
"I will never leave you, nor will I forsake you." (Hebrews 13:5)
"The Lord God has given me the tongue of those who are learned, that I may know how to sustain with a word those who are weary." (Isaiah 50:4)
"Nothing will separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus my Lord." (Romans 8:39)

Try this exercise: put your name in the appropriate places in each of the verses above and I am certain that all that ails you will be trumped by the well-placed kiss of the One who holds you in His everlasting arms. Never, never underestimate the power of a kiss be it from a doting mother or an Eternal Father. With Him, a kiss is never just a kiss.

An Easter Invitation--If You Dare!

Came across this poem on Easter morning. Not sure who wrote it but they seem to be onto something. Sadly, it appears, at least on the surface, to claw too closely to the quick of our modern-fare temperamental stained-glass comfort-driven religiosity…

Come to the Easter Party

I think on Easter morning we should throw confetti in church! No?
What about a little fanfare? A deafening drum roll?
A three minute standing ovation?
What? Have we had the drums beaten out of us,
that we in the celebrative community can’t really get excited
About God’s aliveness
About God’s love given to us unconditionally?
Have we given Easter to the lily bearers, the bunny rabbits,the patent leather shoes?
Let’s face it: We live as though we don’t believe in Easter.
We’re the crowd-easily swayed, easily scared,easily calling for blood.
We’re the good church people who can’t believe Jesus meant love one another--
Not all the one anothers, not drug addicts and criminals.
We hate injustice when it’s injustice towards us.
We love mercy when it’s mercy for us.
We walk humbly with our God when it’s convenient.
We’re babe believers who resist the resurrection;
We’re Christmas Christians who are very good at celebrating Christ’s birth.
We can cling to the babe.
We’re even Crucifixion Christians, agonizing, sympathizing, relating to the hero on the cross.
We can rock a baby;
We can weep for a Dead Man;
But what can we do with a 33-year old who won’t let the story end?
Easter scares us because we’re the people who can’t believe that God gives us abundant life.
We think we have to earn it.
In our pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps society
It’s hard to remember that God doesn’t buy the self-made person.
So we in the church spend our lives showing God
What good people we are,
What achievers we are,
How much we deserve God’s love.
We want to pay our own way but Easter says it’s already been paid!!
Easter says, no matter how prodigal, we can go home again!!
So come to the Easter party!!
Let’s celebrate the amazing grace that in Christ’s resurrection
We are still loved even at our most outrageous.
The Lord has given us the music, all we need to do is dance!
Come to the Easter party!!

The nth Degree: A Passover Meditation

A warm Palestine breeze fluttered through the open windows of the upper room. The torches glowing from the plastered walls danced and played in cadence at the onset of dusk-light. Outside, in the lonely avenues, all was quiet as the swelled Jerusalem populace observed this most sacred of Jewish holy days within their homes and tents.

He must have had something on His mind as He sat there watching His disciples engage over the Passover meal. From the looks of things, in the dim wash of early evening, the Savior's face was etched with unclarified emotion. Deep springs of passion rose to meet His eyes and His accepting countenance fairly depicted a fatherly tenderness.

That's not to say there weren't conflicting themes within. Yeshua could see the long night ahead. There was Peter–brave Peter–chuckling at some inside joke, stealing a wondering glance at the Rabbi, then going back to his innocent revelry with deep-chested gusto. This hard-edged, soft-hearted fisherman, who had made no bones about his allegiance to Messiah, would lie, curse and deny in just a few hours.

There was innocent John Mark, in whose home they now reposed, quietly listening to several conversations at once. He was the youngest and most impressionable. And, not long from hence, this future gospeler would run scared into the night, leaving his outer cloak in the hands of a Roman guard. A casualty of war. A scattered sheep.

Jesus' eyes took it all in. Thomas' pensiveness and Philip's wariness. Simon and Matthew engaging in their nightly verbal fisticuffs and John, beloved John, unsuccessfully imploring them to take the high road of brotherly love. The Savior smiled, seeing His ragtag band, knowing each of their weaknesses and marveling that these were the men who would joyfully choose the narrow road and carry their crosses without apology. But first they would fall away before returning for good. He softly chuckled to Himself, "Baby steps. A lot of baby steps…"

Rousted from His own revelry, His eyes fastened on Judas, and Yeshua was instantly transported back to the matter at hand. They exchanged piercing glances and Mary's Son could already see satan enter into the heart of the only disciple from Judah. With eyes locked, the Father showed Him flashes of what was about to transpire and the only begotten could not help but wince in response. The isolation in the garden. The betrayal. The blows. The scattering of His closest friends. The tearing of flesh. The horror in His mother's eyes. The hardest walk of His life. Becoming sin. The scapegoat. The turning of His Father's back…

Suddenly, raised voices from nearby dissipated these haunting images and He wondered at the interruption. Snapping back to the present, the Son of Man could hear that His men were once again at odds over their ranking in the future Kingdom. Each was brandishing their resume. He called me first…I was in the room when the little girl was raised from the dead…how could you be ahead of me? You couldn't even heal that man's son!…surely you remember that I cast thirty-seven demons out of that old woman in Nain! No one at this table can say that!…

Here He was, the sin-Substitue of the world and His men were not even sympathetic to His impending plight. Judas was licking his chops and lining his wallet. They were indifferent, insensitive and prideful. And something else: they were selfish and inconsiderate. Already well into the evening's festivities, not one of these guys even thought about the dirty feet in that circle. Except for the Son of Man.

And yet, knowing what He was facing, and worse still having to put up with such tomfoolery from friends, Messiah could not shake a deeper feeling that kept rising to the surface: He loved these guys to the nth degree! John must have been a keen observer for it was he that wrote the amazing words found in his gospel:

"Having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them to the end…" (13:1)

To the utmost. To the max. The nth degree. Can you imagine? With all that was churning in His fragile psyche on that night, He was most concerned for His men. He, the Passover Lamb, slotted for execution, the just for the unjust, innocent blood, unblemished nature. What was on His mind? Would these men know how much I loved them?

He not only taught the "second mile", He was the Second Mile! Check that: He was the nth mile! Go the second mile and you will still be eternally behind the Christ you follow! No way you can outlive, outlove, outgive and outserve this One. Not a chance.

The following is well documented in scripture. Jesus rose from the supper, took a towel and basin and washed each of the disciples' feet. Even wicked Judas. Each splash of water resounded with "I love you." Every wipe of the towel on newly bathed feet carried with it the proclamation, "I forgive you." As he restored the sandals to their rightful owners, His unspoken word was "I will never leave you, nor forsake you."

He showed us how, in this tender example and supremest of illustrations, that no matter how bad things may be for us, we can still take time to serve. He also demonstrated that when evil is present, our love can overshadow the wickedest of situations. And lastly (this is challenging, I know), there is no ministry so low and degrading when the Father calls us to rise from our place and serve— even the most undeserving.

By the by, who says we aren't the most undeserving?

Not Qetsatsah

For such affrontery, he should have been slapped and shown the door. The unmitigated gall. Such gumption. A rich kid, wanting to see the world, asked for, nay, demanded his share of the family fortune. His slice of the pie. His cut of the cake. Trouble was, that was not the way things were done in his culture. To ask for an inheritance while the patriarch was still alive was tantamount to wishing him dead. It was unthinkable!

So begins the age-old story of the prodigal (wasteful) son as told by the Master storyteller Himself. From its very outset Jesus had hooked His audience and they were sitting on the edge of their seats to hear what this good Jewish father–whoever he was–would do in response to such an insolent lad. What He said next must have raised the ire meter in the room to mercurial levels.

The father gave the son what he wanted, not what he deserved.

The boy was entitled to a third of the family estate and this enigmatic father, who should have disowned the ingrate on the spot, signed over the deed to him. Not wasting any time, the boy sold the land and left kindred and kind for the gaming tables, lusty vixens and great lights of Vanity Fair. As the father grieved over the son of his loins, the final sounds of his son's presence in the home were the harsh slamming of the door and the plaintive song of heavy coins clinking and slapping in all the degenerate's pockets as the prodigal disappeared over the horizon.

Hands curled into fists and casual breathing turned into snorts of disapproval as the listeners got caught up in the story. Who is this kid, they thought. Let's drag him outside the city wall and rock him to sleep! To add insult to injured egos, the story takes a pathetic twist. The son, it turns out, blew his fortune while he was away in a presumably gentile district. Far from home, friendless and penniless now, the kid looks for employment. Anywhere. Anything. As Jesus spills this refrain, you can just imagine the smugness that begins to loosen their strained expressions and censuring smiles curving on the faces of this elitist gaggle of Pharisees. Serves the punk right. Okay, now we're gonna hear about some justice, you just wait and see…

Qetsatsah! Oh yes, the very thought of it rallied the room! Surely the boy had to undergo the painful lesson of qetsatsah!

In Jesus' time, there was a law on the books that stated if any Jew were to sell any part of Jewish land to a gentile, said person would experience a ceremony in which they would be banned and cut off from their people. Exiled with no contact with their kith or kin ever again! In a sense, that's what this kid had done. He had taken the money from the sale of his section of land and hawked it all in gentile dives!

As the whispers of qetsatsah sliced through the gathering like flashes from a harvester's scythe, they pictured it all in their greedy little minds. An angry village, headlined by the shamed father, meet the boy at the town limits with a jar of burned nuts and corn in hand. The jar or jars are smashed at his feet with shouts of "You are no longer accepted! You are cut off from your family and your people!"

These PhD's of law were licking their chops, expecting the story to climax and end on this point. But were they in for a surprise! The father in the story, hero rather than victim, defied all convention with his outlandish behavior. He gave the son what he wanted not what he deserved and then he waited longingly for his son to return home! Then, when the son does gather his wits and turns toward the porch light of mercy (actually, he thought it would be the humiliation of qetsatsah) what does he see come flying toward him on two feet but a rejoicing father who falls on his neck and kisses the skin off his face?

The son expected retribution, but the father wanted reconciliation. This unconventional father who bit his lip when the son demanded the unthinkable. This eccentric Dad who waited and watched toward the horizon for the puff of dust he hoped would be a returning son, day after blessed day when he should have bid him riddance. This unflappable father who raced an angry village on unsteady legs, running for all he was worth, beating a path to his astonished son, making dead sure that the boy's first sights and sounds of home would be the joyous sobs and relieved cries of a father who wouldn't let the memory of his son fade, rather than bear him facing a hostile crowd, smashed jars of hateful harvest at his feet.

Even though he deserved it.

"Dad, I deserve qetsatsah…"

"No, my son. Not qetsatsah. Smell the prize beef, my lad, the best of the herd! Here is my robe…my ring…"

"But Dad, what I did…you just don't know all I've–"

"What you did, son, was come home. It was my love that drew you back. You may have left our home, but you never left my sight."

"I owe you, father. Make me one of your slaves! Work me double and triple-shifts. Seven days a week! I will work the rest of my life kissing your feet and the ground you walk upon to repay what I've taken from you–and the shame I've caused…oh, dear God, the shame…!"

"Nonsense! You could never repay me and I would never ask you to, my son. I am rich already with the return of my child! Come, let us celebrate…the wasted years have been redeemed!"

In my imagining, I see Jesus stopping here and eyeing his audience. Do you see it, His eyes plead. Do you? Can you see yourselves as the insolent lad…? Oh, how I wish you could…

No? Okayyyyy…well then (ahem), let me move on to the next act of the drama…let's talk about the other brother…