Don't Call Me Religious

In a conversation with a co-worker many years ago, she described me as religious and I found myself deeply offended.  She didn’t accuse me of it, or even compliment me of it; it was part of a deeper conversation surrounding death, illness and suffering.  She just sort of made note of it.

I was initially thrown for a loop.  As a child, having been raised in what I call a culturally religious family, I performed sacraments that were empty and meaningless.  I adhered to doctrine that I didn’t understand and I never, ever cracked open a Bible.  I knew who Jesus was, kind of, but I knew more about rituals and liturgies than about His righteousness and love.

The insufficiency of religion is what propelled my spiritual walk, and for that I am grateful.  So after years of seeking, accepting and learning about Christ, when my friend called me religious, it hit an old nerve.  I surprised myself by responding with calm conviction that I didn’t consider myself religious at all, that I had chosen faith as a life-style instead of religion. Faith that includes a church, the Bible and a relationship with Jesus Christ.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I am not bashing any church or denomination.  I am criticizing my own empty, uneducated, spiritual condition that was going through the motions, but wanting more. With Easter approaching, I think of the many church attenders who will hear only liturgy instead of love, and may know of Jesus, but don’t really know Him.  I ache for those who know that there is more and I want to give you assurance that there is! 

Easter is a beautiful celebration, without it you can’t have Christmas.  The birth of baby Jesus is meaningless without the resurrection of the (divine) man.  Andy Stanley says, “It wasn’t the teachings of Jesus that sent His followers into the streets, it was His resurrection.”    I Corinthians 15 reports that after His death Jesus appeared to more than 500 people, in the flesh.  In that passage the Apostle Paul says that if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile.  I am by no means a scholar, but I don’t know of any other spiritual teacher/leader who did not meet with a final, mortal death. Jesus says to Thomas in John 20:27-29, “Put your finger here; see my hands.  Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” People, this really happened; it isn’t a fairy tale, a folk lore or a piece of fictional fantasy.  I choose to trust the guy who conquered death; I choose to give my faith to the one who loved me that much!

Jesus’ sacrificial death is not only proof of God’s love for us, but the invitation of eternal life (made possible by… ta da… the resurrection!).  Back in I Corinthians 15 Paul writes in verse 19, If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. This point drives deep into my heart.  How sad is it if Jesus’ teachings are only a coping mechanism for me in this life, with no promise for tomorrow?  There is so much hope beyond today and there is so much power that is available to me through the work of the cross, really!  I live this out in the minutia of my days as well as in the mess of tragedy.  More importantly, many others, besides the Disciples, died for this truth.

I know I sound religious, but I’m not!  I’m in love and I am deeply loved back.  This love gives my faith carte blanche, this love attracts my obedience and this love endures even when I doubt.  This love is bigger than my insecurities, my insufficiency and my iniquities.  I celebrate this love this Easter in sacraments that are now filled with beautiful meaning because I understand the cost, the love and the victory that makes eternity available through the resurrection; a very real and historical event.

I love how Jesus, in another conversation with Thomas, addresses eternity.

“I am going there to prepare a place for you.  And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you with me that you also may be where I am.  You know the way to the place where I am going.” 

Thomas said to him, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” 

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me… Believe me when I say that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; or at least believe on the evidence of the miracles themselves.”

(John 14:2-6, 11)

This Easter, I believe afresh in the miracle of the resurrection that opens the door to eternal life. This incredible piece of history inspired the Disciples and continues to inspire great works of faith in all of us who believe.   I don’t think religion did this, I think Jesus Christ did.  I will take relationship over religion any day!  I revel in the reality of the resurrection – the cross is bare, the tomb is empty and our Savior lives! Join me this Easter in really celebrating this incredible truth~ 

PONDER - The kitchen table

PONDER: verb, 1. to consider deeply; meditate. 2. to weigh carefully in the mind. – Syn. 1. Reflect, cogitate, deliberate, ruminate.

Witness & Ponder came about because I wanted to share pictures of Christ moving in others (Witness) and deep thoughts that make me wonder, question and ultimately affirm the life of grace that I have chosen in Christ (Ponder). 

My last post portrayed my personal witness; this post cracks open the door of my mind, which can be a beautiful, yet scary place.  It is a disparate land of lush contemplation and spiritual inspiration that cohabitates with scattered thoughts, notions, judgments and fears.  In order for pondering to take seed, every aspect of my brain needs to harmonize in order to sprout anything of value.  Otherwise day dreams would reign without reason, fears would frolic without divine assurances, and fragmented thoughts would never have a home. 

To ponder is a gift of a surplus sight, it is a discipline, but mostly it is the beauty of a visceral thought that won’t let you go until you search out its destiny. The latter has been mostly my experience – I can’t boast in discipline; I can only boast in the blessed earnestness of the Holy Spirit. 

To be able to ponder something in this day and age is a challenge with all the distractions of life snatching away any focus I can muster.  The noise of life alone bombards my senses; like elusive, hovering gnats, that return to annoy you no matter how many times you swipe at them. (Nature’s noise is the exception here).   You know what I’m talking about, life: TV, kids, pets, cell phone, neighbor’s radio, traffic, grinding breaks of the garbage truck…. all the way down to the hearty din of my own disjointed thoughts!

But there are times when something will capture my attention enough that I need to lower the volume of life in order to attend to it.  It is here, in my pondering, that revelation and inspiration are born.  It is a profound process that reaps interesting results.  I don’t always get answers, but I experience the beauty of the process because the process always includes God.  The internet can provide all the information I may need, but knowledge falls short of comfort, insight, transformation and meaning. 

For many years my inspiration for “pondering” has been Mary, the mother of Jesus.  Here you have a young girl who chooses to ponder her circumstances, rather than freak out, complain, deny or run away.  But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.  (Luke 2:19).  I know she had personal visits from an angel to assure her, but think about that for a second – she could have freaked out, complained, denied, or ran away then too!  An uncommon teenager, facing uncommon circumstances, who chose to plumb the depths of her situation with God and ultimately chose uncommon trust.  Yeah, I think she was one incredible young gal!

You don’t need life shaking circumstances to ponder; you can ponder anywhere - at least I do.  Sometimes I’ll look at something; like my new, handcrafted kitchen table and take a moment to acknowledge the people who imagined it, created it and assembled it in order for my family to eat on it and serve on it.  Then I look around my kitchen and imagine how overflowing it would be if the people who had imagined, created and assembled everything in it were standing there.  Suddenly my kitchen has new meaning and gratitude flows.

So, I invite you to ponder with me. Bring God into your thoughts for His truths, let Jesus reign over your fears and allow The Holy Spirit to usher your fragmented thoughts to a place of new meaning and gratitude.  Mary did it; we can too. 

The Beginning - The Marble Block

My story begins with a telling tale about a woman’s relationship with God at a pivotal stage in life.  It started a journey into a spectacular realm of love and grace with irrevocable changes.  Below is just a portion of this tale, which occurred decades ago. Some of you may have already heard my Marble Block story, but I thought it would be a fitting beginning to a blog dedicated to witnessing and pondering the grace of God.   Even though this is my story, it could really be yours.  The circumstances in our lives may be different, but the hand of God sculpts each of us, as long as we are willing. Whatever your circumstances, whether in joy or pain, my prayer is that you are willing. THE MARBLE BLOCK When I had my first child something strange happened in my life.  It wasn't the obvious “new addition to the family” transition, but rather an internal adventure to rival that of Alice in Wonderland.  It was as if someone had placed a gigantic block of marble on my lawn, right out in front of my house.  The monstrosity was an immense, rough-hewn, piece of rock with intricate veins that swirled throughout.  It wasn’t exactly a sight of beauty, in fact it looked quite the eye sore and I was bothered that my neighbors were all privy to it.  I figured in some way or another this had to do with motherhood.  After all I had had no formal training in the field of parenting.  So I decided to go to some of the experts to get some advice on how to handle my marble block.   The Grandmas were first.  I asked them, “What should I do with it?”  Each one handed me a chisel and instructed me to use it on the marble.  So for the first few months and into the first year I chipped away at the solid, dense piece.  It was a difficult job, keeping me up most nights with sleepy rituals of guesswork that spilled into my confused days.  Feeling unfulfilled with my progress I went in search of more answers. Next it was the doctors.  They could only offer me a hammer, but combined with my chisels I felt I was making progress.  Although, it wasn't long before my frustration grew. I hadn't even breached past six inches of the massive rock.  It was looking worse than when it first appeared on my lawn.  I was feeling embarrassed that all my neighbors could see my slow, pitiful progress.  I was, after all, an educated woman with a keen sense of order and propriety.  I’d met every other challenge in my life successfully; why was this so difficult?   Then, through a network of other mothers more resources came to me.  I attended seminars, read books and shared sculpting techniques with others that had discovered the same big rock outside their door when motherhood arrived.  I acquired better tools - power tools that rivaled my husband’s.  My buffing technique had improved but still the marble wasn't glistening.  I became discouraged as I compared myself to other mothers who seemed to sculpt effortlessly.  I grew tired of the constant chore of picking up after it.  Its dusty shards and slivers were a nuisance.  There were even times, when in error I had chiseled too much and marred a limb or two of the emerging image from the stone.  I would become sad and disillusioned then stop for a while.  Although when I began again, because of some inspiration, I became so engrossed that I sometimes created a hazardous environment with all the debris.  Through the years a form had begun to take shape, which inspired hope.  Yet I still couldn’t master the technique that would bring the rock to life, give it its shine, or display its glory.   I discovered that there was a piece to the puzzle that was missing.  I had searched out family, friends, physicians, educators, professionals and my peers but I hadn’t explored the church.  Now the church didn’t give me any additional tools, but it did give me a manual.  From the hand of the creator Himself, came tips that inspired more than just hope, they instilled a purpose.  Suddenly each and every stroke, chip and buff had meaning.  I was given this rock for a reason.  Most of the time I moaned and complained about how unfulfilling it was to tend but I realized that all along someone counted on me to complete it.  There even came a day when I realized that I was actually enjoying myself.  What had begun as a chore had developed into a labor of love.   With habitual care and attention the figure within the rock began to reveal itself to me, and the more I saw, the more I wanted to see.  What was so important that God would want me to invest most of my life attending to?  Limb by limb the figure almost appeared to be bursting from the captivity of the cold, hard rock.  I could see that my toils, tears and triumphs were meant to liberate it.  With one more cut into the stone, the visage appeared and knocked me off my feet in shocked surprise.  I couldn’t believe it…. The image was of me!   At first this made no sense at all but upon closer examination I understood.  It was the promise of what I could become for God by being a mother to my children, a wife to my husband, a daughter to my parents, a sister to my siblings, a friend to my loved ones and a woman of God to the world. Within that cold block of marble was a child of God waiting to emerge.  It was I. It is I.  It is who God intends for me to be. My work is far from done.  There are whole portions of rock that still cling to my form. There are scars that still have to be buffed out. There are dull portions that have to be shined up. But I still have my manual and it tells me that all that is expected of me is faith.  So I keep working.  Now I bring every shard and chunk of marble to God.  He quietly takes all I have to give and doesn’t expect perfection.  All He wants is for me to love Him with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind and all my strength.  It’s the least I can do for the price of freedom, the debt that was paid by His son, Jesus, for me.   I found God’s truth for me within my Marble Block.  When I was encapsulated in the world’s cold, dark, dank perceptions and expectations of myself, I never got to see what God really saw.  He gave me the means to discover who He wanted me to be when I became a mother.  God freed me from taking ownership of what I believed were the world’s expectations of motherhood.  He took my inability to find satisfaction and fulfillment in that role and showed me that no matter how good I was at it, He wouldn't love me any more - and no matter how bad I was at it, He wouldn’t love me any less.  In His eyes I was a lot more than the poor mother that I was in my own eyes.  I became a better mother once I realized that I would never be the perfect mother with perfect children.   The joy in this freedom was born out of a lot of pain.  My potential as a mother is continually realized through God’s grace.  His grace removes the fence of expectations between myself & Him and myself & the world.   It is grace alone that allows us to honestly accept the ‘who I am’ in each of us.  It is that grace that transforms the ‘who I am’ into what God intended all along.  It is only with His grace that I am able to truly live this life!