Spiritual Growth

Sadly, I’m a Sinner

DSCN0752[1]In the summer of 1975, Tim and I left our two-year-old daughter, Kelly with her aunt and we went away to Atlanta to attend an Institute in Basic Youth Conflicts seminar. For seven days, we joined a crowd that filled nearly every one of the 16,000 seats of the Omni Coliseum. We took notes in our red binder and listened intently to all Bill Gothard had to say.
Yesterday, I flipped back through that binder to refresh my memory of those principles.

And yes, many of them were pretty basic:

• A person’s attitude toward himself has a profound influence on his attitude toward God, his family, and his friends.
• A clear conscience is listed in scripture as one of our most essential weapons.
• Freedom is not the right to do what we want but the power to do what we ought.

I wasn’t surprised this week when, due to allegations of inappropriate behavior with young women, Bill Gothard was removed from the organization he founded . For years there’d been numerous allegations. But I am surprised by how many people blindly followed him.
Now, I believe Bill Gothard started out with the right intentions. Nobody plans to build an empire in order to watch it tumble. But power is a drug. And given too much of it, we become addicts. And I think that’s what happened.

counselling seminar[1]

As a parent, I would have done just about anything to guarantee my children would grow up free of my dysfunction. If following a neat set of steps could help them not become self-saboteurs, I would have followed them religiously. And at times, I did believe it possible to rear them free of making their own mistakes. But attempting to pull that off, sadly did them more harm than good.

But brokenness is the only way to come to Jesus. And if we never fully understand how messed up we really are, we’ll never understand the cross. And no matter how well we behave, or how good we are at following a set of rules, sin is always lurking around the corner.

I can mask my indiscretions by not committing the obvious sins like cussing or adultery. But my sin is always there. And it’s the subtle ones that trip me up the most. My pride and self-righteousness are usually the ones that launch me away from grace. The ones that lead me into judgment of myself and others.

I long to live a sinless life. But my only hope lies in pouring myself out daily to the only God capable of taking away those sins. The only one who paid the price to allow me to boldly walk into his presence as ask for forgiveness. And to that I say, “Amen!”

To All Comfort Handlers
A few months after my father died, Aunt Jeanne Marie dropped me off at a Sunday school class at New York Avenue Presbyterian church in Washington DC.
As I sat down in the small room with lots of little girls in frilly dresses, I immediately knew I didn’t belong. My tomboy pixie was no match for their bouncy curls. I vividly remember the stares and whispers as quick glances shot across the room at me.
At that moment, I knew I wasn’t enough for these girls. I wasn’t sure what I needed to add, but I knew I was lacking. And that lacking made me uncomfortable.
It can consume us, this need to fit in. It can cause us to shun any who are different. To create little circles of friends with rules that are easy for us inside the lines to follow. Aren’t we really just more comfortable when things are the same?
It seems weekly, a firestorm erupts because a famous Christian speaker says something outside the circle of some group or another. DonaldMiller confessed he got nothing out of going to church. Andy Stanley, oh my, dared weigh in on bakers and photographers providing services for gay and lesbian weddings. Suddenly, their faith was put under a microscope. Bloggers and their commenters chimed in from all over the world.
Any more, I’m hesitant to state my point of view. Not because I’m afraid of rejection. I’m proud to say I’ve moved past that childhood incident.

The reason – I may disagree with say, Anne Lamott’s stance on abortion. She’s very pro, and I’m very anti. But I believe we both serve a God whose death on a cross provides the grace for us both to be wrong. And yet, abortion rates have steadily declined. And not because pro-lifers stood on street corners holding signs. But because advanced technology has proven Gods truth, that we are indeed fearfully and wonderfully made.

It all swings around to our need to feel comfortable. But isn’t that just really putting our faith more in our rules and less in the God who saves us?
Ann Voskamp, in a blog post written from a trash heap in Guatemala,  summed it up best,
“We all like being comfort-handlers but let a comfortable life wrap itself around you and that’s what ends up being the snake that snaps it’s head and poisons your life with pointlessness.”
Jesus, when he walked this earth, made the religious leaders uncomfortable. And they were the only people he called out.
As a Christian, I want those around me to be stunned by the grace of my loving God. And I know that requires me to put myself inside circles of uncomfortableness. But I am confident that the God I serve is the only God who can set people free. And leading others to that freedom should always be worth being made uncomfortable.

Heading Home
Not long ago I visited the remains of the World War II cruiser, the USS San Francisco. The memorial sits imbedded on a hillside overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Its bow is pointed due south toward Guadalcanal. 

Over sixty years ago it led a convoy of American ships in a fierce battle against the Japanese fleet. Still visible are the many holes ripped through her thick steel.

On that bright sunny day, a cool breeze blew across the bay. Behind me the bright red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge peeked up over the treetops. I listened intently as my Uncle Eugene shared some of the history of this great cruiser. How it had withstood the attack of twenty-five Japanese bombers, with one crashing into the ship killing 30 sailors. How in 1942, the USS San Francisco steered right through the middle of the enemy’s fleet. Taking on fire from all sides, it caused so much confusion, the Japanese fleet fired on their own ships. 

This plaque dedicating the memorial reads:

…A very powerful Japanese force was moving at night towards our positions in the Solomon Islands. The spearhead of the force that we sent to intercept the enemy was under the command of Rear Admiral Daniel J. Callaghan. He was aboard the leading ship, the cruiser San Francisco. The San Francisco sailed right into the enemy fleet – right through the whole enemy fleet – her guns blazing. She engaged and hit enemy vessels, sinking one of them. At point blank range, she engaged a enemy battleship – heavily her superior in size and firepower. She silenced this battleship’s big guns and so disabled her that she could be sunk by torpedoes from our destroyers and aircraft. The San Francisco herself was hit many times. Admiral Callaghan, my close personal friend, and many of his gallant officers and men gave their lives in this battle. But the San Francisco was brought safely back to port by a Lieutenant Commander. And she will fight again for our country…
                           Franklin D. Roosevelt
                           November 17, 1942
As I stood there, I wondered what it was like to bring that damaged ship back to the city for which it was named. I imagined the it quietly chugging underneath the Golden Gate Bridge – all men on deck, weary from the recent battle, yet gaining strength with each mile. I felt the pride they had pulling the ship into port with the entire city of San Francisco there to welcome them home.  

USS San Francisco under the Golden Gate Bridge 1942

For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about how good it felt to stand on top of that rubble. I marveled at how I could feel the strength of those men who fought that battle so long ago. It amazed me how their story and some beat up metal could inspire me so many years later.

Daily, we all fight battles. Few of us will ever experience the kind of conflict the men of the USS San Francisco saw. But, our struggles are real and painful. And many times we fight them alone.
My experience on the USS San Francisco taught me the importance of allowing more of my battle scars to show.
For if I were to peel back the layers of my heart, you would see scars where enemy fire has penetrated my toughest armor. I too have been fired on from all sides. I have large scare where my father’s death tore a huge hole in my heart. I may say, “please don’t touch, the wound is still not healed.” Or I may show you the large bruise left by my son’s arrest. Two big battles God has helped me overcome.

Feeling the power of that struggle aboard the USS San Francisco made me wonder. What if hiding my personal battle scars robs the people around me of the opportunity to witness my strength and endurance?
Perhaps hiding our scars or polishing them up before revealing them does a disservice to those we have the greatest ability to inspire.
Like that great battle cruiser, enemy fire has damaged my exterior. Many times I’ve nearly broken under the weight of the struggle. But no matter how weary I become, I’m determined to keep my ship headed for home.  I may not be pretty when I get there, but I know there will be a crowd to welcome me home.

Grace
Friday December 1, 1995 is blazoned on my mind. The day the police drove up our long driveway and took him away. For questioning they said. It was late into the night before we knew why. Armed robbery. Twice.
The following Monday, Tim and I squeezed onto the back pew of the courtroom. We had Daniel’s lawyer’s instructions. Go forward when his name is called. Tell the judge you’ve hired counsel and you’d like a continuance.
So we waited. I prayed there’d be no handcuffs.
Daniel’s case was called last. The side door opened. He stepped into the courtroom, hands and legs free. I hurt, not for what he’d done to us, but for what he’d done to himself. For this pain he’d feel for the rest of his life. The judgment other’s would pour on him for this foolish mistake.
Deep in my soul I heard that whisper, the quiet voice of the Spirit. “That’s how I feel when you sin.”
Without shame, we made it to the front. Two broken parents signing in as present. Standing up for their sinner son. “Yes, yes Judge, he’s ours. I know what you think, but we love him. And yes, we’re prepared to do whatever it takes to help him set this right.”
As we spoke, I saw a flogging, an innocent man, and a cross.
Back at home my mind wandered. Fears erupted. I prayed the mattress would swallow me whole.
I thought we’d done our best. Read all the popular books. Gone to church; sent him to private school.
But what if he get’s raped? What if he’s beaten? What if he’s sentenced to life?
For days I tossed and turned. Fear gripped my every move.
And then I remembered God’s grace. And how it had carried me. And even if my worst fears came true, God’s grace would see Daniel through.
After all, it was never my job to save him. To control his every move. Or force him to follow Jesus. If I could, what would be the point of the cross?

So I surrendered all.

Eighteen years later, he’s a husband and a father. A college graduate on his own journey with Christ. He’s creative and strong. Passionate and caring. And he’s a blessing to me, and a reminder to many, of God’s abundant grace.

My Inner Raging Battle
She sat across from me at our kitchen table, her belly bulging with my first grandbaby. The early morning sun streamed through the window. Tim had brought her home from Phoenix where she lived with her husband. After many conversations with friends and family, he decided Kelly was the best person to confront me.
As I dug into a bowl of cereal, her voice quivered,
“Mom, I’m really worried about you. You’re just not the same. You’re so unhappy. And I’m afraid my baby will never know the fun loving mom who raised me. Please go see the doctor. I’m sure there’s something he can do to help you.”
A few weeks later, I sat in our doctor’s office discussing an injured knee. I thought it odd that he kept asking me if there was anything else wrong. My heart pounded. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t spit the words out. Finally I sputtered,
“I think I’m depressed.”
He sat up straight, and shot off a list of questions. Did I get eight hours of sleep, was I exercising and cutting down on sugar, had I seen my therapist lately? It was almost like a preplanned script. Years later, I learned he already knew. Tim had sought his help.
It’s an ever-raging battle, this war I have against depression. Many times, I’ve crept close to the edge. I’ve lost my sense of reason. I’ve argued inside my head against the value Jesus puts on my soul and the worthlessness I feel in my depraved mind. Too often, I’ve fallen into the trap of thinking my family would be better off without me.

This week, my heart is heavy with the news of the suicide of a young Orlando pastor. The man who baptized my grandchildren, the spiritual leader of my daughter and her family. He mistakenly thought his family would be better off without him. I understood his pain.
So many of our battles are fought in places no one else sees. Whatever drove us there doesn’t matter.

When this happens, we all need a grace revolution. A time to set aside judgment and lean in close to one another. To listen to the gentle murmur of the hearts and souls around us. Who knows, maybe we can pull those folks back who are teetering close to the edge.