I Have Sinned...

 The Church is in need of healing.  Desperately.  But I don't think it's physical healing that we need.  Our most severe wounds are not skin deep.  They go much, much deeper than these earthly temples in which we live -- much deeper than flesh and blood.  Our wounds are deep within where it is dark and somewhat frightening -- almost too dark and frightening to talk about.  We need a healing -- a healing of our souls.  

When I was growing up we lived just a few blocks from a large Roman Catholic church and school, and many of my childhood friends were Catholic.  My family was Lutheran.  I remember on Saturday mornings my Catholic friends often went to something called "confession," and I was especially thankful not to be a Catholic on those days.  When I asked my parents why we didn't have to go to confession, I was told that we didn't need a Priest or anyone else in the "middle" between us and God.  We could go directly to God ourselves and confess our sins.   It sounded good to me.  Keep things private.  Just between God and me.

It doesn't sound good to me anymore.  In fact, I think it's the primary reason so many of us are so broken and wounded inside, bound by the very sin from which Jesus freed us.

It's not that we don't know Jesus.  We would say that we have been "saved."  We have been "set free."  But have we?  How saved are we?  How free are we?

I learn so much from my college students.  I love to watch them as they worship God in chapel and Vespers, dance at the Homecoming dance, play in the marching band, compete in athletics, sing in the choir, and perform at the Factory Theater.  But one of my favorite places to engage with them is in the classroom, especially on the days when the discussion leads to matters of deepest importance. Last Wednesday was one of those days.

It was my youth ministry class.  Many of the students in this class will become youth pastors.  All of them are passionate about working with youth in some capacity.  There was a group presentation on the topic of sex:  promiscuity, pornography, homosexuality, and other challenges that they will face as they work with youth today.  As the discussion progressed, I told them that youth need a safe place to talk about their sexual struggles and temptations, as well as a place to confess their sexual sins and find forgiveness and support.

One of the students then asked, "What if we're struggling with the same things they are?"  I stopped to take a deep breath.  "These are struggles we all face, yes"  I said.  Someone else said, "I think a lot of college students are walking around with these huge weights, these huge burdens.  It might be sin in their past or something they're struggling with now.  And they think they're too far gone.  They can't ever really feel free.  They never really feel loved and accepted."


My heart broke.  I knew they were right.  I told them, "It's not just youth or college students who walk around with these burdens and temptations and sins.  Adults have the same issues.  We just get better at hiding them as we get older."

I've thought about our conversation ever since I  left class.  What are we doing as the Church?  What are we doing as followers of Jesus Christ?  We are "saved" but we're still in bondage.  We are "forgiven" but we still feel condemned.  We are God's children, but we feel like outcasts -- wounded, abandoned, alone.

The apostle James wrote, "Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed" (James 5:16).  Healed.  HEALED.  We are forgiven because of Christ's sacrifice.  But often God's healing grace is given through the act of confessing our sins to one another and praying for each other.


Dietrich Bonhoeffer (Life Together) said,

"A man who confesses his sins in the presence of a brother knows that he is no longer alone with himself; he experiences the presence of God in the reality of the other person.  As long as I am by myself in the confession of my sins everything remains in the dark, but in the presence of a brother the sin has to be brought into the light."(116).

We experience the Presence of God in the reality of the OTHER person.  Someone else is in this WITH us.  God's Presence, God's Holy Spirit, is in our brother or sister and they become ministers of God's healing grace.

My fellow Protestants, we could learn some important lessons from our Catholic brothers and sisters, especially in the area of confession.  Our "Jesus and me" theology has kept us from experiencing God's healing grace that flows when we truly confess our sins TO ONE ANOTHER. 


Obviously, we need to use discretion and discernment in choosing when and to whom we confess our sins and burdens.  But it seems to me that we are neglecting one of the most important roles of being a part of the body of Christ, the Church.  We are to be a community of believers that CONFESSES to one another and then allows the grace and love of Jesus Christ to flow through us to others -- His life-giving, healing grace.

We need to confess to God, AND to our brothers and sisters in Christ, that we have sinned...and we are ALL in need of God's healing grace.



 

The death of a hamster

You know the phrase, "truth is stranger than fiction."  Well, it's stranger and funnier and sadder sometimes, too.  I was retelling this true story the other day and I still laugh every time I do.  And, sometimes I cry.  I promise you -- I am not making ANY of this up.  I might not have all the dialogue exactly right, but it's as close as I can remember.  Maybe this story can add some joy -- and perspective -- to your Monday.

I'm allergic to dogs (actually, I'm allergic to anything with hair, except people, thankfully) so I did not give in to the kids relentless begging for a dog.  I did, however, allow them to get hamsters.  We started with one, then two, then three, then one died and we were down to two, and then another died and were down to one (the average life span of a hamster is 2 years).  And then we got Leah.  Leah was a teddy bear hamster.  We "adopted" her from another family.  She was unlike any hamster I'd ever known.  Really.  You could pet her, hold her, have her run all over you, and she'd never bite you.  As hamsters go, she was perfect.

But then she got sick.  Everyone was concerned (well, by "everyone" I mean my daughters and I).  I promised the girls she would get better.  It was just a virus.  But, unfortunately, she didn't get better.   I knew I had to do something.  The look of panic and concern on my daughters' faces told me I HAD to do something.  It was a Saturday morning.  I began calling veterinarians in the area (remember, true story).  I found one about an hour away that would look at her, but I wasn't sure she would survive the trip.  Then I found one here in town, and when I talked to his assistant she was so sweet.  "Bring her in.  We'll look at her right away."

So the three of us -- excuse me, FOUR of us, got in the van.  Me, Hannah, Emily, and Leah (in her cage).  We went into the doctor's office and waited until he called us into the examination room.  He took Leah out of her cage and placed her on the large, stainless steel examination table.  She couldn't even stand up straight.  She tried to walk and kept falling.  And there was a little bit of blood coming out of her mouth.  "She's a rodent" I kept trying to tell myself as I got choked up.  "A rodent."  But a really cute rodent.

The doctor picked her up and looked more closely, then placed her back down and said he wanted to try to inject her with an antibiotic.  As he got the needle ready, Hannah decided she'd had enough.  She left the room, crying, and went out to the van.  Emily (who aspires to be a doctor) hung in there, and watched as the doctor prepared the syringe.

But then Leah got worse.  She was having trouble breathing.  The doctor's assistant picked her up and began administering CPR (remember, true story).  Let me quickly add that it was the "hands-only" CPR.

It was Emily's turn to exit.  She'd had enough.  She joined Hannah in the van in the parking lot.

So now it was just the four of us:  the doctor, his assistant, me, and Leah the hamster.

The assistant kept trying to revive Leah.  You really have to imagine what's happening to get the full effect here.  This woman is literally giving CPR to a hamster, while the doctor and I look on, as if this is all quite normal.  "I'm trying, but she's hardly breathing.  I don't think she's getting any better" the assistant said.  The doctor looked at Leah, then back at me, then back at Leah, then back at me.  I realized the final call was up to me.  I had to say it.  Me.  So, I did. "It's OK.  It's time to let her go.  You've done all you could.  Really.  It's time to stop."

So, the assistant laid Leah back down on the stainless steel table and the three of us watched as within seconds she stopped breathing completely.

I realized I was actually lost in the moment when the doctor had to repeat his question to me again, "Did you bring anything to put her in?"  Did I bring anything to put her in?  What does that mean?  And then he said, "Like a shoebox, or something of that nature?"  And then I realized what he meant.  Did I bring anything to put her in, in case she died at the office.  No.  I wasn't planning on her dying at the office.  And I'm pretty sure that if I brought something like that with us my daughters would have been hysterical.

"Well, we do have a small coffin if you'd like it.  It should be just the right size for your hamster." I realize that anyone reading this now must think those last two sentences are absolutely absurd, and I would agree -- but I need to tell you that they didn't sound absurd at the time. 

When you are grieving, even if it's just the life of a hamster, you do things you wouldn't normally do.  At least I did.  I said, "I'll take the coffin."  Now, I had no idea if this coffin was going to cost $10 or $200, I just knew that my daughters were going to be crushed and I wanted to do something, ANYTHING, to make them feel better.

So the doctor's assistant went and got the coffin (satin lined -- remember TRUE story), and he gently laid Leah inside and closed the top.  It actually was just the perfect size.

They sent me back into the waiting room with Leah's empty cage and the coffin, and told me they would add up the bill quickly and let me know.  I braced for impact.  Tried to justify why we would spend a fortune on a hamster.

The assistant called me to the counter and said, "That will be $20.  The doctor is only charging $5 for the office visit.  The little casket is $15."  I gratefully wrote out a check for $20 and gathered all my things and headed for the door.

I walked across the parking lot to the van with an empty cage in one hand, and a small coffin in the other.  As my daughters saw me they could tell by my expression, and the empty cage, that Leah was no longer with us.  And they wept.  And I wept.  In fact, we cried and cried all the way home.  Over a hamster.  A rodent.  Something I would set a trap for if I saw it running around in our house.

What are the spiritual lessons here?  I'm sure there are many.  But probably what I will remember most is the way in which the doctor and his assistant cared for Leah, and in doing so, cared for us.  What would the world be like if everyone cared as they did?  What if we treated everyone we meet as well as they treated a hamster?  I wonder...

Please Don't Ask Me to "Lighten Up"

(I've been sitting on this post for quite some time, debating as to whether or not I should put it "out there."  It's not very uplifting -- but it is real.  And deep, deep down, it truly is filled with hope -- because God is there.  So, for anyone who is interested, here it is...)

I think I've finally accepted the fact that my interior life will always be marked by a general disposition of, well, discontent.   I live with an ongoing, restless longing for something better, something more.  Someone once told me I needed to stop being so "dramatic."  I said I would try.  At that time I believed that I actually had a choice in the way I think and process life. But I'm not so sure anymore.  I'm growing weary of people telling me -- either directly or indirectly -- to be something I'm not. " Lighten up." " Stop thinking so much." "Don't take it all so seriously."  "You've got to let go of the questions."  In other words, stop.  Stop being me.

Instead, I think God is calling me, to be me.  And everything I've experienced, all the people I've met, all the joys and heartaches I've felt, everything I've encountered along my life's journey-- factors into the person I am today.  Because nothing I've experienced has gone unnoticed by God.  Rather, God has been with me through it all and has been using each experience, each person, each struggle, to transform me throughout this journey -- drawing me closer and closer to His Heart, closer and closer to the Image of Jesus Christ.

For some unknown reason, God has made me this way -- with a heart that breaks easily, with a mind that won't stop thinking, and with a soul that is often discontent.  I've met lots of people who are not at all like me.  People who always see the bright side, who come and go with no strings attached, who weather life's storms and come out on the other side without a scratch.  Sometimes I envy these people, I really do. 

And then I've met people who have truly experienced life and know what suffering means.  There's something about a person who has truly experienced suffering.  You can see it in their eyes -- when you look deep enough and long enough.  It is a level of understanding that is almost impossible to describe -- but you know it when you see it.  These are the people I am drawn to, because they don't try to explain life away with easy answers and bumper-sticker phrases. They know better. 

I'm convinced that the most important spiritual insights don't come from reading a great book.  They don't come from listening to stirring sermons.  No, truly deep spiritual insights come from experience -- and usually at great cost.

•  They come when you are scratching and clawing for survival -- just enough strength to make it through another day.  

• They come when your world is as black as night and it seems as though the dawn will never come -- never.  

• They come when you feel trapped in a valley of dust and hopelessness and even when you find the strength to cry out for help, you discover you have no voice, or at least no voice that anyone can understand.  

• They come when you are surrounded by people, loving and caring people,  and yet you feel completely and utterly alone.  

• They come when you doubt everything you've ever believed about yourself -- everything -- and you almost feel as though you will disappear completely.  

• They come when your mind is filled with voices telling you how bad you are, how damaged, inadequate, broken, beyond restoration -- and even when you don't want to listen to them, the tapes keep playing back -- over and over again -- no matter how hard you try to shut them off.

At least, this is when they come to me.  Because this is when God has my full attention.  This is when I realize that I am, in fact, dust.  Everything else is stripped away.  My reputation.  My goals.  My dreams.  My relationships.  My past.  My present.  My future.  A true sense of humility overtakes me.  I have reached the bottom.  There is nothing and no one left.  Except God.

It is in this state that I have come to know and experience freedom for the first time in my life.  Freedom?  Yes, freedom.  Because freedom is knowing that what means the most to you, can never be taken away from you.   

It is in this state when my life verse becomes my life blood:  "Whom have I in heaven but You?  I desire You more than anything on earth.  My health may fail and my spirit may grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart.  He is mine forever."

He is mine FOREVER.  He is yours FOREVER.  Nothing -- NOTHING -- can separate us from His love.