Exposing Sin to the Light

Some of us are fortunate enough to have had an experience in our lives where, as John Wesley said about his Aldersgate experience, “I felt I did trust in Christ alone for salvation; and an assurance was given me that He had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death.”[1]  I was in twelfth grade, one of the disciples in our church youth group’s production of Godspell.  Each disciple played various roles as the story of Jesus was told, and one of the roles I played was that of the woman caught in the act of adultery (John 8:2-11).  I will never forget the upheld hands of my fellow disciples holding imaginary rocks; I’ll never forget the hatred in the eyes of my friends who were ready to stone me to death...  I’ll never forget the feeling I had as I watched each one drop his or her hand and turn away, unable to cast the first stone.  No one condemned me.  In that moment I knew with certainty that Jesus Christ loved me – even me!  I knew – deep down in the very core of my being – that my sins were forgiven.

I shared this story with the youth in my confirmation class recently and it led me back to the eighth chapter of John.  I realized as I reread it that I had never really considered what it would feel like to expose a sin that had been hidden.  The woman’s adultery – something that had happened in the cover of darkness – was brought into the light early in the morning as Jesus taught in the temple.  I wonder if the woman felt shame and humiliation as she stood before this angry crowd.  Or perhaps anger or embarrassment?  Maybe she was simply bewildered by the rapid sequence of events.  After all, she had been caught in the very act of committing adultery.  No matter what, it must have been excruciatingly painful standing before a mocking crowd as Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger in the sand.  Her sin had been brought into the light, and one way or the other things would never be the same.

As I reflected on this story I did something I rarely do – I flipped on the TV to take a break.  Oprah was on, talking to Olympic gold medalist Greg Louganis.[2]  Greg came out on the Oprah show in 1995, revealing that he was both gay and HIV positive.  This week he was reflecting on that day, so many years ago.  He spoke both of the terror of sharing the truth about himself, and the relief of no longer needing to live in the midst of never-ending lies.  Regardless of whether we view homosexuality as sinful or not, Greg had been living in deep darkness – a life of deception weighed heavily on him.  He took a huge risk when he spoke the truth, and discovered profound healing.

I have worked with several women who have experienced abuse.  One described the way that her partner intentionally hit her, bruising her in places that could be concealed by her clothing, but never touching her face.  When she tried to bring this abuse into the light, the abuse actually got worse.  Then he ‘accidentally’ bruised her face, and the truth came out.  Like the woman caught in the act of adultery, she was forced to bring the abuse – and all the baggage that came with it – into the light.  It was a very painful time for everyone involved, but with time and therapy and prayer she began to find healing and wholeness. Telling the truth about her situation helped to free her from a terrible secret.

What does it feel like to expose a truth that has been hidden?  What happens when something that has occurred under the cover of darkness is brought into the light?  It seems to me that this is when the lies and deception end, and honesty and truthfulness begin. As Greg Louganis said, he no longer needed to edit himself, but could speak the truth.  This must have been profoundly freeing.  As for the woman who was left standing next to Jesus, she had been given new life – a chance to start over.  Jesus tells her, “Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.” The truth, in the midst of an angry, murderous crowd, had revealed that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). The truth, in the midst of all her disgrace and pain, had set her free.

This morning I was reading from Ephesians 5: “Live as children of light... Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what such people do secretly; but everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for everything that becomes visible is light” (v. 8, 11-14).  Light – truth – freedom – healing.  All this, just for exposing the unfruitful works of darkness – the hidden truths, the carefully concealed brokenness, and even the outright sin – to the light.  And this is only the beginning.  Don’t forget about the amazing gift of God’s abundant love and ceaseless forgiveness. 

 

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[1] The Journal of John Wesley, May 24, 1738.

[2] http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/Gay-Issues-on-The-Oprah-Show/1

Gasping for Prayer

Sometimes praying takes no effort at all.  Praying can be automatic, instinctive, natural – like breathing.  The words are simply there, the posture (kneeling or sitting or standing, hands folded or upheld) is effortless, the communication is easy.  God is powerfully present and actively listening.  As Marie Barnett sings:

This is the air I breathe

This is the air I breathe

Your holy presence living in me.[1]

Prayer is living and breathing – a part of who I am.  Prayer is powerful and beautiful – God with me.  Sometimes praying takes no effort at all.

But sometimes I feel mute and deaf and blind to prayer.  There are no words in my mouth and the words on the page are meaningless.  The Psalms, the Collects, and even the Lord’s Prayer might as well be in a foreign language – there is no understanding.  If God is speaking, I’m not hearing anything.  My posture is restless – my knees hurt and I lack the strength to hold up my hands.  Communication seems all but impossible.  In these times when prayer simply escapes me, I long for a breath of fresh air; it feels like I’m gasping for prayer. 

Habit leads me to read the Psalms.  A pattern of morning prayer leads me to read a Collect or two.  After all, I believe:

This is my daily bread

This is my daily bread

Your very Word spoken to me.

And yet, sometimes God’s Word simply does not speak to me through these patterns and habits. I breathe in, longing to speak.  I gasp, longing to be filled once again with the wind of God.  And I still feel breathless – dry and empty – unable to pray.

The amazing thing is that when the senses I rely on don’t seem to be working, God finds another way.  Shortly after sunset tonight, as I walked across the bridge over the Haw River, the full moon was reflecting brightly on the water and that wind of God touched me in the beauty of that moment.  God found another way.  Earlier today, I listened to the FolkPsalm[2] band sing psalms of lament and praise in Goodson Chapel.  The Word of God spoke to me in the sharp contrasts: “How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long?”[3] versus “Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens, your faithfulness to the clouds.”[4]  Together, in the heaviness of one and the joy of the other, God spoke a breath of fresh air.  God found another way.

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[1] CCLI Song No. 1874117, © 1995 Mercy / Vineyard Publishing (Admin. by Music Services, Inc.)

[2] http://folkpsalm.com/

[3] Psalm 13:2 (NRSV)

[4] Psalm 36:5 (NRSV)

You Don’t Scare Me

You don’t scare me!

Well, that’s not true.

You still do scare me,

You do!

Masses and lumps,

An atypical cell,

Why is it that you seem to

Grow so well?

And pain! Why does pain

Rule the day?

Why can’t there be

Another way?

There’s doctors and tests

And waiting, and waiting;

The uncertainty is

Excruciating!

Then tiny steps forward,

A glimpse of hope!

It really isn’t the end

Of the rope!

Surgery, chemo, another doctor,

Another test.

And utter exhaustion–

The need for rest.

You really don’t scare me,

Well, that’s not true.

You’re destroying my body,

There’s not much I can do.

But trust doctors and chemo,

And pray and pray.

And live like tomorrow may be

My last day.

And praise my Creator for

All I’ve been given.

For family, for friends,

And the promise of heaven.

You really don’t scare me,

Try as you may.

For Jesus is with me,

Every step of the way.

He’s my Lord and Savior,

My dearest friend.

My comfort, my shelter,

Beginning and end.

You really can’t scare me,

While I still have breath.

I know the truth:

Love is stronger than death.

Changed by Prayer

Prayer changes things.  But prayers don’t always change things the way we think they should or the way we wish they would.  Recently I read something that struck me as very true: Our prayers to God do not change God; rather, they change us.  God works through our prayers to change our hearts and to open our eyes to see things differently.  Prayer changes things.

Many years ago, a young man who I’ll call “John” walked into my physics classroom.  He was handsome, tall, athletic, and filled with rage.  He was typically late for class, causing a disruption as he bustled in with too many bags on his shoulder.  He was not a typical physics student and I was not particularly happy about his presence in my class.  I tried contacting his parents – unsuccessfully.  I then worked with his counselor to learn his story.  Problems at home had led him to leave his parents.  He was currently living in his car.  He didn’t have a calculator because he couldn’t afford one.  And all those bags – well, he was carrying much of his life with him day in and day out.

I began to pray for John.  I prayed for healing in his family so that he might go home.  I prayed for him to be on time for class.  Prayer changes things – but never the way we expect.  Over the next two years I became his friend.  He never was particularly good at showing up to class on time, but he showed up.  And he never did go back to his family.  I ended up supporting him as he did the painful work of becoming an emancipated minor.  I looked the other way as he sold candy in class so that he could have some pocket money.  I helped him apply to college.  Prayer changed me so that I could love this young man.

A few years after this, I taught a ninth grade reading class for students who were reading on a third or fourth grade level.  Most of the students in that class were fourteen years old.  And then there was “Gabe”.  He was seventeen – a man in a class full of boys and girls.  I was afraid of Gabe.  He was angry, disruptive, uncontrollable.  If there was family, no one knew where.  The counselors had no advice.  There was nothing I could do but pray.  I prayed for Gabe to skip my class so we could actually get some learning done.  I prayed for him to drop out of school so I could find some peace. 

Of course Gabe showed up every day.  Over time, I learned that he had been in a gang since he was eleven years old.  I learned that he wanted to lead a normal life – get married and have children, hold a steady job, live in a house with a fenced yard.  He didn’t see this ever happening because of his gang activities.  I learned that he was intelligent, creative, and insightful.  He never ceased to be disruptive in class, but I was no longer afraid of him.  I remember sitting with him in In-School Suspension one day.  I had gone to help him with the assignment I had sent – but the teacher wouldn’t allow us to talk.  So I just sat with him in silence for an hour.  What an odd thing to do!  The strange thing is that prayer changed me – I not only learned to love and respect this young man, but I began to seek out others in the school who were like him.  I’m sure that my desire to work in the prisons today started with my prayers for Gabe.

There are many students I prayed for over the years, but after I began seminary my prayers changed.  I no longer had the day-in-day-out interactions with troubled youth that drove me to pray.  I now had a congregation to pray for and classmates to pray for – sometimes generally, sometimes specifically.  And then God placed a young man in my path who needed a math tutor.  I jumped at the opportunity for very selfish reasons.  My studies in Bible and theology were filled with more questions than answers.  Math is straight forward.  I jumped at the chance to do something that had clear answers.  And it was a joy to tutor this young man from a stable home who wanted my help.

I began to pray for this young man, who I will call “Jake”, simply because I was tutoring him.  My prayers were not very specific because I did not really know what to pray for (and I had learned that often the things I pray for are the wrong things).  While I certainly enjoyed the math, I found that the time I spent with Jake, simply building a relationship, was truly a gift.  As I worked with him, I sensed a strong pull to continue my journey with him as he began college – a pull I resisted because it seemed like God was asking me to enter too deeply into this young man’s life.  But God is persistent, and I have helped Jake in ways I never imagined I would.  He is a joy and a blessing to me.  God uses prayer to change us, to change me.  God uses prayer to help us love people we never thought we would love.  And for that I am truly thankful.

Three young men who touched my life.  Three young men I will never forget.  Three relationships that could have developed very differently if it had not been for prayer.  And there are so many other people in my life – so many other relationships – that have been profoundly shaped by prayer.  Shaped in ways I never imagined.  Shaped in ways that only God could have envisioned. Our prayers to God do not change God; rather, God uses our prayers to change us.  How has prayer changed you?

A Posture of Gratitude

A few weeks ago I was struck by the ABC News article on two pastors who have lost their faith, but are still preaching.[1]  The second pastor, “Adam”, explained: "I live out my life as if there is no God."  This phrase caught my attention because I’ve been reading Stanley Hauerwas’ memoir, Hannah’s Child.  Hauerwas, a theologian and ethicist, writes: “I live most of my life as if God does not exist.”[2]  I know there are many atheists out there, but how is it possible for pastors or theologians, people who devote their lives studying God and teaching others about God, live as if there is no God?  In that same breath, I couldn’t help but ask myself, “How much of my life do I live as if God does not exist?”

I became overwhelmed by the possibility that God does not make any difference in much of what I do day in and day out.  My daily patterns and habits often do not look any different than those of friends who do not believe in God.  But I know for certain that I would not be where I am today doing what I am doing where it not for the fact that God has made a profound difference in my life.  In trying to seek a faithful answer to this question, I asked myself, does God’s existence make any difference to my morning routine?  I chose my morning routine because it is exactly that – a routine, filled with the same patterns, day in and day out.

Each morning I am generally woken up by a hungry cat who progresses from gentle nudges to stomping all over me, trying to get me up to feed her.  (Who needs an alarm clock when you have a cat?).  After nuzzling her and giving her her morning rub down, I feed her.  Then it is the dogs’ turn.  Each one gets a morning rub down that slowly wakes them up.  I’ve done this for years – I start at the head and gently massage the head, the body, and then each leg, and finish with a hug.  Then I let the dogs out and get the kettle on for tea!  My morning tea is a must.  I read my morning devotion with the first mug of tea, then move on to checking email, news headlines, etc. with the second cup.  A walk comes next – the dogs love their morning walk across the Haw River and then up along the edge of the lake.  When I get home I feed the dogs, and then I’m ready to eat, take a shower, and get on with my day.  This is a very typical morning – these habits and patterns are deeply ingrained, and have been for years.

So I wonder, is there anything in my morning routine (beyond my morning devotion) that points to the existence of God?  Or do I also spend much of my life living as if God does not exist? 

Anyone could have a routine like this – Christian or non-Christian.  For a brief moment I thought, “God’s existence really doesn’t make any difference in my morning routine.”  But as I continued to reflect on this week, the thing that struck me is the underlying posture of gratitude that accompanies each part of the routine.  The morning rub-downs are a time to give thanks to God for putting these animals in my life (yes, even the cat!).  The morning tea is a time to give thanks to God for my dad who so graciously supplies me with good Canadian tea (and to give thanks to God for good Canadian tea!).  My walks give me time to thank God for creating such a beautiful world and they give me time to pray.  These prayers can take many forms – from earnest petitions for those I love to singing praises to God to simply listening for God – depending on my mood.  And when I get home I give thanks for shelter, food, and the ability to delve into the tasks that lie ahead of me.  A posture of gratitude.

On mornings when I am more grumpy than grateful, it is the pattern that moves me toward gratitude.  The cat’s soft fur relieves some of the ache in my hands.  The dog’s wet kisses and whacking tails can’t help but bring a smile (dogs really do have this way of loving unconditionally).  The tea warms and cheers.  The devotion opens up God’s word to me, encouraging and inspiring me.  And the walk – especially the walk in Saxapahaw – brings glimpses of God’s glory.  A blue heron, a red fox, a white tail deer, a brown squirrel.  By the time I am ready to delve into my day, I have been repeatedly confronted by just how good God is to me.  I am able to embrace a posture of gratitude for another day – a posture that says loudly and clearly, “God exists!”  More than that, this God, who revealed Himself so profoundly through Jesus Christ, loves me – even me, in all my brokenness.

A posture of gratitude is such a simple act of worship – one that can connect me to the living God day in and day out assuring me that God not only exists but is powerfully present with me.  So with the Psalmist, I sing:

O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
for his steadfast love endures forever.

–Psalm 107:1

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[1] Dan Harris & Wonbo Woo, “Atheist Ministers Struggle with Leading the Faithful,” ABC World News (November 9, 2010). Online: http://abcnews.go.com/WN/atheist-ministers-leading-faithful/story?id=12004359).

[2] Stanley Hauerwas, Hannah’s Child: A Theologian’s Memoir (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2010), 159.

Under His Wings

I read Psalm 91 several weeks ago as part of my devotions.  Since that time this image has been caught in my imagination.  I am no artist, but wanted to share this with you.

You who live in the shelter of the Most High, 

who abide in the shadow of the Almighty, 

will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress; 

my God, in whom I trust.” 

For He will deliver you from the snare of the fowler 

and from the deadly pestilence; 

He will cover you with his pinions,

and under His wings you will find refuge; 

His faithfulness is a shield and buckler... 

Because you have made the Lord your refuge, 

the Most High your dwelling place, 

no evil shall befall you, 

no scourge come near your tent.   

For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.

~Psalm 91:1-4, 9-11

By The Water's Edge

While Psalm 137 is so clearly the cry of a people in exile, there’s something about this psalm that draws me into the depth of grief and loss.  Our hearts cry out with those in exile as we experience our own “exile” – our own separation through loss and death from those we love.  And so we cry out to God in prayer:

By the rivers of Babylon – there we sat down and there we wept

when we remembered Zion.

On the willows there we hung up our harps.

For our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth,

saying “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?[1]

By the water’s edge we sit and watch the river flow by.  Whether it is a wide, slow moving river or a rocky, white-water river we sit by the water’s edge gazing out at the water in our grief, pausing to let life flow by.  Perhaps we toss a flower in and watch it float downstream.  There’s something about the river that allows our tears to flow more freely.  And we weep as we remember.  We weep as we remember those we love.

Tormentors fail to grasp the depth of our grief and invite us to laugh and sing.  Perhaps they are simply trying to cheer us up.  But how can we laugh?  How can we sing?  How can we praise God at a time like this?  No, this is a time for sitting, not a time for doing.  The laughter and the singing will come later, but for now we must simply be.  And our prayer continues:

If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!

Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth, if I do not remember you,

if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy.

In grief and sadness we want to remember; Lord, don’t let us forget! As we sit with our grief we remember the person, the place, the community we have lost.  We remember the laughter and the tears.  We remember the joy and the sadness.  And somehow – even if we don’t believe it at the moment – we remember that in life and in death we belong to God.  And yet, even as we remember, there is fear.  What if we forget?  How can we forget?  Lord, don’t let us forget!

As we sit by the water’s edge we remember that love never ends.  There is hope.  We glimpse the joy that comes from loving and serving our Lord.  We remember that God is with us; even if we forget, we know that God will not forget.  And then, in that moment, just as we glimpse the possibility of joy, the grief sweeps over us again.  And that is okay.  Our prayer continues:

Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem’s fall,

how they said, “Tear it down! Tear it down! Down to its foundations!”

O daughter Babylon, you devastator!

Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us!

Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock!

With the grief comes a shocking anger.  We didn’t know we could hate so much.  We didn’t expect that we would want to lash out at someone, anyone.  We didn’t anticipate that the pain would manifest itself as a desire for revenge, as a need to blame someone, anyone.  And yet, these emotions overwhelm us.  The unfairness of it all.  The injustice of it all.  Anger threatens to consume us.  And then, in the act of shouting out our most horrible thoughts and desires and threats to God, somehow we find some comfort, some peace.

How fortunate we are that we can share both the sadness and the anger of grief and loss with our Lord.  As we sit by the water’s edge and our hot tears continue to flow, God sits by us and listens.  God sits by us in our sadness and in our anger and weeps with us.  And when we are ready we will leave the water’s edge and re-enter life.  Forever changed, yet stronger.  Knowing we will laugh and sing again.  Giving thanks to God with our whole hearts for His steadfast love that endures forever.

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[1] Psalm 137 (NRSV)