Under a Rock

"You don’t know what the Muppets are?! Have you been living under a rock?”

“P!NK, you know, like…‘Glitter in the Air?’ No?! Have you been living under a rock?”

“Jim Carrey, you know, from ‘Dumb and Dumber’…Oh, right, you’ve been living under a rock.”

“You know there’s this Family Guy episode where…Never mind, you wouldn’t—I forgot you live under a rock.”

Sometimes I hear that phrase about living “under a rock” several times in the same week. I find it amusing, and sometimes I just answer “No, I don’t know…I’ve been living under a rock. It's okay, you can call me an ingénue.” Then I smile while I wait for them to decide whether or not to ask what ingénue means.

It’s true, I still can’t quite remember what Muppets are, in spite of the fact that I’m sure at least three different astonished people have described them to me. I couldn’t name a single song by the Backstreet Boys, haven’t seen Grease, and never did get fractured fairytales since I’m not sure how Cinderella let her long hair down so some handsome prince (who was a frog before she kissed him and Princess Aurora) could climb up and bring her back her slipper, which the Seven Dwarves returned after it was found by Little Red Riding Hood…or whatever happened. Those stories never made it into our library of books or videos when I was growing up. If any of that suggests that I have been living under a rock, then yes, I guess I have.

Granted, I’ve picked up a lot more pop culture in the last few years—in fact, I’m pretty sure I could sing along with the radio at least once every half hour if you put it on scan. These days I’ve seen a lot more modern media than I even care to, but none of it has convinced me that I missed out on anything growing up “under a rock.” Occasionally I just wonder if kids today are aware that rock can actually reference a hard object found outdoors as well as a music genre…let alone know how to spell genre.

I don’t mean to criticize all the kids raised with all the knowledge that I freely admit is foreign to me; I fault them for nothing except perhaps faulting me for not knowing the same things they do. Really, I simply want to reassure concerned parents that their kids won’t necessarily grow up hating them for having raised them under a rock. In fact, they might even be grateful for it. I am.

See, my parents didn’t raise my brother and me watching Barney. We watched Janice’s Attic, where I learned what caused condensation, what a kimono was, and that if Jesus made even the elephants to be kind to each other then I could be more thoughtful too. We didn’t read Cinderella, but I still know the names of dozens of missionaries and great men and women—Mary Slessor, John Paton, David Livingstone, Josephine Cunnington Edwards, Moses, Narcissa Prentiss, F.A. Stahl,  Joseph, William Booth, Wycliffe, Roger Williams, Corrie Ten Boom, Uriah Smith, Eric B. Hare, Martin Luther, Esther, Daniel Boone, John Bunyan, Joan of Arc, the Wesley brothers, Ellen G. White, Abraham Lincoln, Adoniram Judson, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Jesus Christ—because I read their stories or listened to their dramatized biographies on Your Story Hour. We didn’t sing along with Britney Spears, but we did sing this song at church called “The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock.”

So when people ask me if I’ve been living “under a rock” I have to smile at the irony. My parents weren’t raising me to be living “under a rock;” they raised me to live on the Rock. Sure, they made plenty of mistakes and didn’t raise my brother and me in some blissfully picture-perfect family that could probably find its simile in some TV sitcom I’ve never seen, but I can’t regret for a minute the many things from which they sheltered me, all in an attempt to build the house of my character firmly on the Rock of Ages. Every positive aspect of my life I can trace back to the foundations laid in my upbringing, foundations that could have been built on the world’s shifting sand, but instead were painstakingly grounded by my parents on the unmoving Rock, the Cornerstone many builders are still rejecting (Acts 4:10-12).

If you’re a parent, I want to reassure you that building your children on the Rock is worth it; at least, I’m so grateful that my parents took the effort. If your parents raised you in such a way that you occasionally get asked if you’ve been living “under a rock,” I hope you smile and aren’t at all embarrassed by it. After all, someday—when the Rock cut out without hands returns to bring this world to an end—no one is going to ask you how many episodes of The Simpsons you missed out on growing up.

Living under a rock? No. Living on the Rock? I pray it will always be so.

Circumstantial Evidence

I stood at the register desk and examined the breakfast vouchers. They were obviously photocopied, the writing traced a second and third time to the point of distraction, and cut jaggedly like a first-grader’s end-of-the-day craft project. The two waitresses waiting for my reply glared at the specimens skeptically.

The restaurant within a hotel where I supervise attracts most of its customers from the voucher system; that is to say, the hotel provides free breakfast passes to regular guests, groups, and so forth. Usually these are on pre-printed cards that the front desk personnel simply fill out with the group code, guest name, room number, etc., however on the rare occasions when they run low on the cards they sometimes neatly copy a blank voucher.

These were different.

I was working Sunday after a couple days off, and my staff had already regaled me with tales of the family of vandals that had descended on our restaurant in my absence. With so many kids of all ages and so few manners to go around, the family had single-handedly decimated the buffet room and left their tables in a state of chaos to rival the combined force of Katrina and Rita. According to the waitress who had their section, they had exited a side door without even leaving enough vouchers for everyone. Having been amply warned, I waited for the demolition team to arrive.

And they had, presenting me with the suspicious vouchers. As they filtered through with to-go boxes to carry out their spoils of war, I stood analyzing the vouchers while the waitresses looked on, justifiably critical of the jagged vouchers’ validity.

Julie* shook her blond head, hands on hips. “These are photocopies…”

I agreed, “Yes, but occasionally we do get photocopied vouchers from front desk. It happens.”

“But they never look like this!” she protested.

Again, I had to agree. Both girls adamantly pointed out that the vouchers always were cut with the guillotine paper cutter in the office, never jaggedly with scissors; they weren’t scrawled all over multiple times, and the account codes usually matched on each voucher within a group or family—these didn’t. I couldn’t deny a word of it.

Turning to one of the voucher-wielding conquerors, I asked who at the front desk had given them the vouchers and when. “The girl with the long dark hair in the ponytail…on Thursday.” Conveniently, Hannah* wasn’t on duty Sunday to vouch for the vouchers.

Julie shook her head again and declared that Hannah never would have given out vouchers that looked like that, she was much too careful and precise.

I handed the vouchers back to the waitresses. “We have to accept them. Yes, they look for all the world like phonies, but we can’t prove that they are. Maybe front desk did photocopy them, and the guillotine paper cutter was missing or dull so they had to use scissors, and for some unknown reason Hannah scrawled over the writing a couple times.”

My staff stared at me doubtfully, conveying the clear message that they would sooner believe Casey Anthony was innocent.

“No matter how unlikely that sounds, it is possible…” I finished in a whisper, “Even though they look guilty as sin, the evidence is all circumstantial, and we can’t know for sure that they aren’t authentic.”

Neither of the waitresses appeared even slightly convinced, and, honestly, I wasn’t either.

The next morning Hannah came breezing through for some coffee, and I stopped her with the incriminating vouchers in hand and the staff listening on the side: “Do you remember if you guys gave these out at the front desk Thursday?”

Hannah glanced at them quickly. “Oh yeah, they just had so many of them that I copied some instead of handwriting everything out again. Some of it was in red pen, though, so I went over it again with a black one since I wasn’t sure it would copy.”

Ever since that incident I’ve thought how often we jump to conclusions about people, especially when we think they are just the sort of people to do whatever we assume they did. When Jesus said, “Judge not, that ye be not judged” it was clearly not because humans have a great track record for open-mindedness. For some reason we have a natural tendency to critique, categorize, and convict everyone around us. And, not surprisingly, we are often completely wrong in our conclusions.

Christians certainly aren’t exempt. It might sound like I’m beating a dead horse, but seriously…what’s with all of us judgmental Christians? I’m including myself because I know better than to think I haven’t ever done it too, and I hope you think carefully before assuming that you aren’t guilty of it. What makes any of us so holy that we feel adequate to pass judgment on anyone else?  Maybe it’s just that much easier to see a mote in our brother’s eye than to deal with the beam in our own.  

Cliché? No doubt. You already knew all of that, and so did I. For some reason, though, it just hit home when I realized how something that looked so clearly guilty wasn’t what it seemed at all…and how easily in our finite wisdom we can be very wrong. Jumping to conclusions and passing judgment have far-reaching consequences, and I’ve resolved that I would rather err on the side of caution.

“Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Let’s leave the judging up to the all-knowing God who never errs.

*Names changed.

"My Christianity Sucks!"

“My Christianity sucks!”

It was a moment of supreme transparency, and I couldn't help but feel a kinship with my friend's sentiments. Several years have passed since that conversation, and that’s the only sentence I recall from it, but those words sunk down deep. Though I'm reasonably sure I've never expressed it quite that way, there have many days when translating my soul’s spirituality into electric impulses would have transmitted the weakest of vital signs. If there had been some device to electronically connect my heart to the keyboard of my laptop, Microsoft Word would have received very little communication. In fact, it probably would have typed just one sentence: My Christianity sucks!

Perhaps you've never felt that way, but I would be bold enough to guess that at some point, during some spiritual dry spell in your life, you were tempted to doubt the validity of your whole experience as a Christian. You know the time. Maybe you put on your church face and no one was the wiser, but when you peeled it off in the mirror at home after the sermon there was that vacuous stare from the eyes on your soul. You didn’t think your prayers would get past the ceiling, even if you could think of anything else to say. You didn’t voice, “My Christianity sucks.” But you felt it.

If you’re hoping for some cushy, feel-good , “this too shall pass” dénouement for the “My Christianity sucks” crisis, you will have to look farther than my blog. I don’t have that kind of solution to write for you because, when you are in that valley, some glib, poetic, philosophical resolution is almost entirely useless. “My Christianity sucks” rarely resolves with beautiful, dramatic closure.

One thing kept coming back to me, though, as I pondered my friend’s exclamation: “My Christianity sucks!” The word my. Is it your Christianity? Could that be the problem? My brand of Christianity could be lacking if I acquired, designed, and fitted it on my own. No wonder it sucks—I suck at creating beautiful things out of the unlovely. But wouldn’t you know…God doesn’t. He’s a master at that.

Does your Christianity suck? Maybe it’s time to exchange it for Christ’s brand of Christianity. Throw out all your failures to attain, all your notions of what you must do, and be an empty vessel for Christ to fill. After all, that’s what He is waiting on anyway.

Yes, it’s harder to do than it sounds. It’s humbling to plead with David through the darkness “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me.” (Psalm 51:10) But it’s certainly better than wearing the façade of your Christianity, hiding behind some past spiritual high and hoping you can revitalize it before it withers. Just let go of it, and ask Christ to give you a new Christianity—His version of Christianity. It may actually be more demanding than yours was, but it will also be more rewarding and less fickle. Take His yoke upon you…and you will find rest for your soul.

Pages!

In a brief departure from my usual blog posts, I wanted to point out that I now have pages listed across the top of the blog to link you to pages including About Me, Quotes, Recipes, Contact Me, Fainting Robins, and Know the Song. "Recipes" has been recently updated with a recipe for Blackberry Cream Cheese Coffee Cake (and a picture ;-) Please check them out at your leisure...Hope you enjoy!

The Way...sans maps or GPS

In general, I have a distinct aversion to using a GPS. The invention was possibly the summit of brilliance and annoyance all rolled into one fantastic and pricey package that offers the opportunity to get given incorrect directions in a voice that conveys less personality than the slam of my car door. Personally, I'd much rather just go the old fashioned way and use a map when necessary.

Bad directions aren't unique to using a GPS, however. In fact, there are times when I might prefer to capitulate to popular choice and use a GPS rather than attempt to follow people's directions. Case in point...

Scenario: Meeting a friend at the Battlefield Mall. Texting upon arrival.

Me: Hey, where are you?

Friend: The mall.

I shook my head and tried to quell the responses coming to mind.

Me: Yeah, you're also in Springfield, MO, but I could use something a bit more specific.

Friend: Macy's

In my experience, department stores like Macy’s on the mall have only slightly fewer entrances than the catacombs. There are dozens of departments, entrances in the mall, out of the mall, upstairs, downstairs.

Macy’s. Really?!

I finally got enough clues in the hunt to locate my friend, and by the time we were going to meet to leave I got a text asking where to pick me up. The golden opportunity to reply "outside the mall" fleetingly danced around in my brain, but I resisted the urge and answered, "Could you just pick me up on the east side at the north end by Hu Hot restaurant? I will be outside on the sidewalk."

Am I asking too much to request reasonable, detailed directions? Probably so. It’s probably why I can identify with Thomas’ question to Jesus in John 14. Right after one of Jesus’ most beautiful promises of going to prepare mansions, a place for each us, Thomas has to pipe up. Listen to the dialogue:

“And where I go you know, and the way you know,” Jesus tells the disciples.

“Thomas said to Him, ‘Lord, we do not know where You are going, and how can we know the way?’” 

“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.’”

The sad part—I can just hear myself asking the same question Thomas did. I want to know exactly where we are going and how we are getting there; is that so unreasonable? Do you have a map, Lord? I’d really like to know the ETA…What about a GPS? I know you know the latitude and longitude coordinates, so just plug those in and I’ll be ready to go.

I can see Jesus smiling sadly. They missed it. He had been showing them The Way and telling them where He was going for three and a half years, ever since His initial command “Follow Me,” recorded in eleven different places throughout the Gospels.

You see, if there is one thing better than detailed directions, it’s having someone lead you directly to your destination. No worries about taking a wrong turn, confusing one exit for another, or accidently entering the wrong end of a mall’s department store. Just follow the one who knows the way already.

When Jesus asked anyone to follow Him, it wasn’t merely “Let’s go this way today and see what we can find to do.” It was a calling that went far deeper. As they followed Him literally and figuratively He was showing them The Way; they saw it each day, like a map written in the dust of Capernaum or Nazareth or Jerusalem, and so, as Christ’s ministry drew to a close, He knew they had seen where He was going…and they knew The Way. It was simple—all they had to do was keep following Him.

So long after the days of the Apostles, I have a little Thomas inside me persistently wanting further directions. Lord, don’t you know I could get lost if I don’t have step by step instructions? Where are you going, and what is the way? Maybe you, like me, find yourself demanding detailed directions from God for your life.

I can just see Jesus smiling sadly. You missed it. Where I go you know, and the way you know. Remember that I said to follow Me? Just follow the One Who knows the way already.

Remember Me

I pulled into a parking space at Springfield's botanical gardens Sabbath afternoon, and Daniel roared his motorcycle into a spot a couple spaces over. Since we had both driven into church that morning and were planning to attend the evening program, we decided to save the gas expense of a trip home and back again. The somewhat less gas efficient alternative to simply waiting at the church was my idea--spending the afternoon at an awesome park.

We wandered down the paths toward the lake which separated us from a couple in wedding attire being posed and photographed by two zealous photographers. The paths divided trees and carefully chosen plant life until they led into a clearing centered with a figure on a bench. At first glance I thought it was a woman watching the geese at the edge of the lake, but the plaque on the back of her bench revealed that it was a statue, a memorial to a lady I had never heard of before.

Photo Credit to M. Daniel W. Wilson

For a while we sat on the bench with her, took a few pictures, and moved on. Down the path was a spread of plants and flowers framing another bench with the inscription, "Sit Awhile With John and Mary." I was beginning to understand why the botanical gardens were also collectively referred to as the Memorial Park. It was an odd sight, all the life humming and growing around silent memorials to individuals who had passed away, all of them complete strangers to me.

The lesson I have been discussing for the last couple weeks with the youth class that I lead at church has been about the Lord's Supper, and somehow I found Christ's choice of words oddly striking--"This do in remembrance of Me." (Luke 22:19) Never was there a life of more significance than Jesus' life, and the same is true of His death, so it makes perfect sense that there should be a memorial to Him of equivalent significance. So I wondered how it was that He chose the memorial that He did...the observance of His final supper, from the foot washing before to the exact meal that followed.

It's not the typical memorial, to be sure. Lincoln has his memorial, Washington his monument, and Sojourner Truth has a statue to commemorate her as well. I've seen them all. Historically, even the Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, chose a massive golden statue as a tribute to his achievements. When Jesus chose a memorial He might have had any kind of monument He wished; if He wanted a statue of Himself calming the waves, or a crucifix, a nativity scene--perhaps made of gold or marble or pearls--He could have commanded it to be. But instead He gave us something alive: an experience. It's an experience involving emblems of sacrifice, a living testimony to His undying love. Every time we observe the Lord's Supper we can experience His love and forgiveness in a new way, which is infinitely more moving than a statue and far more meaningful than a plaque, picture, or commemorative phrase.

"This do in remembrance of Me," Jesus said. And then He led His disciples from the upper room to a garden...If it had been the botanical gardens instead of Gethsemane perhaps there would be a bench under some trees inscribed with the Savior's plea, "Tarry ye here, and watch with me." (Matthew 26:38)

False Advertising

I get so annoyed by things that are advertised as something they are not.

My scotch tape dispenser proclaims “invisible” tape...and I always thought invisible meant “not able to be seen.”  I would suggest they try terming it translucent, but they are probably still working on making it invisible so renaming it might put a damper on progress.

Then there is the beauty parlor that offers a permanent for my hair. Oddly, I've had close to ten of those permanents and none of them were. Seriously, isn't that false advertising?

I must be the only one who has stared at a wrinkle in a purportedly “wrinkle-free” shirt and said, “Okay, what are we going to name you since you're not supposed to be a wrinkle?” Actually, I haven't said that, but it seems like a fair question for a wrinkle-free shirt that has more wrinkles than a pug.

While we're talking about calling things what they're not I am not going into Taco Bell's “Mexican” food offerings, but only out of respect to my friends who oddly enjoy its...er, hmm...fine cuisine. Or Chinese restaurants that serve French fries and play country music (yes, I have had the misfortune of encountering numerous such establishments). The list of false advertising that I’m not going to address could go on and on. And on.

I wonder if God has the same annoyance. Does it bother Him to see things and people stamped with the description of “Christian” when, in reality, they don't merit the title? If the performance doesn't validate the claims, it sounds suspiciously like false advertising to me. And I think I might be guilty at times—sometimes I might be more of an invisible Christian than Scotch can make their tape. And hair permanents are really no worse than I am about maintaining a lasting transformation. As for Taco Bell's scrumptious “Mexican” food...well, can I complain if it's not authentic? After all, I call myself a Christian—but there are times when I am sadly unlike Christ.

This seems to be a primary complaint of many who object to Christianity—it’s the hypocrisy, our religious word for “false advertising.” I’ve heard many people say, with some sort of accomplishment, that they are bad—but at least they don’t hide it under some veneer. In fact, there seems to be a lot of virtue associated with accepting your inadequacies instead of trying to alter them.

I beg to differ. That makes about as much sense as applauding those clothing companies for shifting their advertising to “We Will Not Lie—Our Shirts Wrinkle Stupendously!” or “Wrinkle-Free is for Wimps—Get the Ones That Wrinkle!”

Instead of renaming wrinkles maybe it would be better to just actually be “wrinkle-free.” The solution isn't to call myself what I am, but to become what I call myself. In life we can either pretend to be something we’re not, just accept what we are and demand accolades for the virtue of being transparent, or start producing products to match the description, so that the advertisement is justified. Sadly, too many of us, Christians included, find the first two options more appealing because they seem to require less effort.

Let’s not forget, though, that we don’t have to do the work alone. It is Christ working through us to transform us, and He promises that “He who has begun a good work in you will complete it” (Philippians 1:6). I’m glad to know that not only do I not have to settle for my weaknesses, but Christ doesn’t leave you or I to do the work alone. He will transform our characters into authentically wrinkle-free Christianity.