Influential

“Conservative Jesus” is white.  Like, super-white.  And he wants his guns, and his bacon cheeseburgers, and his sweet tea, and you can’t tell him no.  Throw an extra espresso shot in that $9 coffee, barista!  Heck, make it two!  He is a hard worker, and he knows that poor people wouldn’t be poor if they would just stop feeling sorry for themselves and get a grip on their lives.  He loves when you’re charitable, as long as that charity stays on American soil.  His robe is star-spangled and his sandals were made in the United States.  He is all truth, and no grace.

“Liberal Jesus” has a passing resemblance to Bob Marley.  He smells vaguely of  patchouli and clove cigarettes.  He may or may not shower regularly, but you know what?  You do you, he chuckles.  He only eats organic food – actually, let’s be honest, man, he probably grew it himself – shops at thrift stores, and doesn’t believe in rules.  Laws are too restrictive.  Freedom is where it’s at.  He embraces all, for exactly who they are, and doesn’t expect anyone to change, because that would be inauthentic.  He is the realest real, man.  His cargo shorts pockets are full of granola.  He is all grace, and no truth.

At which altar do you worship?  The red or the blue?

We as a nation have politicized Jesus.

As the Roman soldiers shamelessly, cruelly stripped Him of his actual clothing, we are stripping Him again – this time, of truth.

We fold His words carefully around our political ideals so we can justify every decision we make.

He is a political icon, yes, but not the one we have made Him out to be.  He ignited a rebellion against self-centered living, against complacency, against the status quo, and when we refuse to acknowledge that – when we want to use Him merely to drum up votes or appeal to a certain demographic, we have reduced Him to a flag, a mascot, a puppet.

What I know is that Jesus never rejected anyone – regardless of gender, race, income, status, or background – who came to him with genuine need and an open heart.

He helped women in need (Luke 8, John 4).

He healed the physically sick (Matthew 15).

He embraced the outcasts (Matthew 9).

He ministered to the mentally unstable (Mark 5).

He raised the dead (John 11, Mark 5).

He fed the hungry (Matthew 14, Mark 8).

He celebrated marriage (John 2).

I don’t want to wave the banner of the Red Jesus or the Blue Jesus.  I want to use my hands and my words to be instruments of the Real Jesus.

Indoctrinated

“Fight nice, girls.”

It was something my mom always threw our way when we were arguing, when we weren’t…basically when we were in a common area where we might breathe the same air, and, therefore, find something to disagree about.

I’ve grown up to be, I think, a pretty accommodating person.  Nice, even.  I’ve got no problem letting people merge on the parkway (even if they “should” have done it before they got to me).  I regularly let people with a fewer items slip in front of me in line at Target.  I throw compliments to moms with kids I see at the park, even if they look weirded out that a stranger is talking to them (Heaven forbid they smile back at me). I want to be a reflection of Christ, and if it means taking an extra moment to say hello to a harried-looking cashier or asking a server how he is really feeling that day, then it’s no sacrifice at all.

But, as I grow older, I am learning that there is a difference between “nice” and “kind”.  I grew up with kids who were not often “nice” to me.  Kids aren’t always nice.  Neither are adults.  “Nice” and “kind” are both choices, but they are not the same thing.

“Nice” means keeping the peace.  It’s absolutely important, sometimes critically so.  “Nice” keeps society moving along, keeps us from murderously tracking down every maniac who cuts us off on the road, keeps us from viciously internet-stalking the parent of that one kid who (maybe) accidentally knocked our toddler over at the playground.  “Nice” is a good thing, but it’s a temporary thing.  It’s a quick choice we make to overlook an insult.  It’s a brief moment of restraint when we want to roll our eyes at the lady who is taking forever to find her checkbook in her giant purse (checkbook?!  COME ON!).  It’s not even always honest; “nice” can be hurriedly nodding at your friend’s choice of miniskirt when you know she will complain if anyone posts pictures of her in it later!

But “kind”.  Oh, that is something else entirely, my dears.  Kindness is a lifestyle.  Kindness is not always nice.  Kindness is sincere, patient, true, selfless.  It’s really only a step away from love, and it’s utterly lacking in the world today, because we have so seriously mixed up our “nice” with our “kind”.

A few months back, I watched a video posted by a minor celebrity.  Honestly, I didn’t even know who she was, but what struck me was the topic – inappropriate comments on her facebook page. You know, the trackable, cringe-worthy, social media equivalent of catcalls.  One man, in particular, had repeatedly posted vulgar, sexual comments both privately and publicly.  This woman had made the choice to call him out on it, and several of her female fans admonished her, claiming that her decision was not “nice”.

Nope, it wasn’t.  It would have been “nice” for her to turn the other way, pretend like it never happened, delete the comments and move on with a smile.

But her decision was kind.  Kindness shows respect for oneself and others.  Kindness does not allow abuse.  Kindness can sometimes involve painful honesty.  Kindness might include warnings.  Kindness encourages others to grow, learn, and mature.

As a Christian and a woman, I have always tried to be nice.  But I’m realizing that being kind is so much more important.  It’s hard, though; “nice” gets to avoid conflict.  “Nice” gets instant appreciation.  “Nice” makes me feel liked.  And for someone like me, who can literally become ill at the thought of confrontation, “kind” is not as rewarding in the short run.

But you know what?  I gotta deal with it.  The Bible never lists “niceness” as a fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5).  In fact, the word “nice” never appears in the Bible at all, at least not in any scholar-approved translations I’ve read (I mean, it’s in The Message, but we’re not going to get in to that right now).

Kindness is what matters.  Kindness is what counts.  Kindness is how Jesus lived.

It’s why what He did was right – but not always appreciated or understood.

And that’s okay.

Insulted

My all-time favorite musical is Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  I’m not, to be honest, a huge musical person; I’d prefer a play to a musical any day.  I mean, no, I still haven’t listened to Wicked or Hamilton and I think the last big show I even bought music from was…um…RENT.  So I probably lose some street cred with a lot of hard-core theatre people, and that’s okay.

This post isn’t really about the musical so much as the story that inspired it.  The story of Joseph, found in Genesis, is a beautiful tale of redemption and forgiveness, but it’s also a story of jealousy, bitterness, rivalry, and rejection.

Joseph’s father, Jacob, may be listed in Jewish literature as a patriarch, but he wasn’t always a really great human being.  First, as a relatively young man, as told in Genesis 25 and 26, he lied to steal his brother’s blessing from their father, and manipulated Esau into selling his birthright (although Esau’s short-sightedness was as much to blame as Jacob’s deviousness).  These decisions came back to haunt Jacob for many, many years, and had a huge impact on his own relationship with his sons.

Jacob had to escape his brother’s wrath, so he fled to his uncle Laban’s home.  There – you know the story – he fell madly in love with his cousin Rachel (remember, at that time there was no law against marrying close family!), and vowed to work for seven years as a laborer for her father.  After that time, Laban played the old bait-and-switch game, sneaking his older but less attractive daughter Leah into Jacob’s marriage bed on the wedding night.

Poor Leah.  She is only described by the phrase “weak eyes” (Genesis 29:17).  Even if, as some scholars indicate, “weak” could have been used to mean “gentle”, that’s still not saying much about Leah, especially when, in the same verse, she is compared to the “lovely figure” of her little sister.  Maybe Laban thought he was doing a favor by tricking Jacob into marrying her; perhaps he didn’t think she had any other prospects?  At any rate, Jacob bargained for Rachel in addition to Leah, and found himself committed to fourteen years of labor for two wives.

Surely there must have been a great deal of tension in that household.  Two women, one loved and one unloved – one barren and one fruitful.  The Bible alludes to Leah’s joy at having several sons, where her sister could not even become pregnant.  However, each time she gave birth to a little boy, Leah mistakenly thought that her husband would come to love her for her contribution to his legacy, his family, and his name.

Nah, never happened.

Leah’s life must have been difficult.  Perhaps not physically, as her husband became a wealthy man with many, many servants, but emotionally, she certainly suffered.  The neglected mother to resentful sons,  we don’t know if she spent her days whispering bitterness into their ears, or if they, observant as children often are, noticed that their father doted on Rachel instead of Leah.  Regardless, this lack of love set into motion the events of Joseph’s life – a cycle of success and suffering that culminates in the rescue of his starving family, tears, forgiveness, and a reunion with his aged father.

Leah is the premier example of the “not enough” woman.  Not pretty enough, not good enough, just not enough.  No matter what she could have done, her very existence was never good enough to meet her husband’s desires.  She served him, gave him many sons and a daughter (don’t get me started on poor Dinah’s story), gave him her maidservant to bear his children.  Like Leah, we can also find ourselves giving, giving, giving, desperate to be liked, accepted, treasured, valued…until we realize we have nothing left inside us. We forget that our value does not come from what we do, but what we have in Jesus – which is everything.

Jacob was a patriarch, yes, but that certainly doesn’t mean he didn’t have (several) moments of complete cluelessness.  He never valued Leah the way she, as God’s creation, deserved to be valued.  Interestingly, it is Leah who had the “last laugh”, so to speak.  It was through the line of her son, Judah, that Jesus was born (Revelation 5:5).  Her loneliness was not in vain, because, through her lineage, the Christ came that no one ever had to live with loneliness again.  I like to think that if she had known that, she could have endured her loveless marriage with a little more patience.  Had she seen what Christ saw, on the cross, the generations of those to be set free by His blood (Hebrews 12:2), perhaps she could have been content.

(Joseph’s story can be found in Genesis 37-50.)

Indebted

I remember feeling like a “good” abnormality in high school.  My parents, after all, unlike those of many of my friends, were still married.

Well, that didn’t last long.

I’ll save the details of the divorce and subsequent drama for another post.  Today’s post isn’t to talk about walking through tragedy or difficulty; it’s about realizing that God knows what – and  who – you need in your life, even when you don’t.

My step-mother, Deana, never ever tried to be my mom.  She didn’t try to be like her, didn’t try to replace or one-up her.  She was blessed with a patience I could never (and still cannot) understand, and she made herself and her wisdom available to me when I needed someone, like a “cool aunt”, but she didn’t “mother” me.

That was the best choice she possibly could have made for a teenager whose self-esteem was in the sewer, whose relationship with her biological family was strained, whose faith was new – eager but naive.

It didn’t happen overnight, but she became one of the most important human beings in my life.  It was Deana who was the Mother of the Bride at my wedding, and her daughter, my step-sister Julia, who was my Maid of Honor.  My biological mother, in Kentucky, and sister, in Erie, did not attend (in their defense, we had chosen a winter wedding in Pittsburgh, and a lot of folks were unable to make it).  I had gone from hating the idea of a step-mom to being overwhelmed with pride because that very same woman was standing there with me that day.

Later, she was by my side when my husband and I suffered three devastating miscarriages in a row.  She mourned with us, she encouraged us, and she rejoiced with us when we finally held our children (a son, then, almost three years later, another son) in our arms.  She carefully chose her grandmother name, ‘Gogo’, and stepped into the role like she was born for it.  My children love her.  It helps that she’s a big ole geek, like the rest of us are, and nicknamed my oldest “R2-D2”.

There’s a part of me that is pleased that she never had to “share” them with my own mom, who died six years ago.  Now, I know that my mom would have loved them dearly; she had a genuine soft spot for children.  I remember that she used to send thoughtful holiday treats to my stepsister, despite never having met her at the time.  But I know, too, that she is with my first three children in heaven, and she is enjoying them there.  She got to meet them before I will, and knowing that she – and they – are in every way whole and healed and complete, well, that’s the reason I have hope (Hebrews 6:19).

Deana never tried to be my mom, and of course, that’s exactly how she became my mom.  It still surprises new church members when they learn that the announcements girl is not the real daughter of the bookstore lady, because I haven’t referred to her as my “stepmother” in years (though, that gets confusing when I tell people that my mother passed away and then, later in the conversation, talk about Deana as my mom.  Weirds people out).  It was a meandering path God led me on, through dark times and bright highs, but it led me to realize that Deana was by my side the whole time, too, honoring my mother’s role, but helping shape me into the person I am now.  Well, the good parts, anyway, not gonna blame her for any of my bad habits.  Like eating movie-theatre butter popcorn while binging crime documentaries on Netflix when I totally need to get the heck to bed.  And not replacing the toilet paper when I use the last of it.  That’s all on me.

But she loves me anyway.

Inspired

I’m currently working on a new project.  I had the idea for it about a year ago, and it has evolved drastically since then.  God just keeps dropping new ideas into my spirit, whispering his thoughts into my ear, and I am trying to follow his lead.

I don’t want to reveal too much about it, but it has turned into a one-woman show, inspired by several of the unnamed women of the New Testament.  I’m modernizing their stories, and therefore, I wanted to give them backgrounds and stories that would resonate with women in America today.  I felt it necessary to weave into their histories some “true” fiction.  Most of these women’s stories are told in a handful of verses, but there is an important reason they are in the Bible to begin with.  They tell stories of hope, redemption, love, and faith.  Those are timeless things, but we do not live in a timeless world.  In writing lives out for these “faceless” ones, I realized that many of them were likely dealing with isolation and loneliness, caused by their situations or their own choices.  I wanted to give them histories that my audience would connect with.  One of the characters will be healing from the pain of broken trust.  Another will be coming to terms with a mental health diagnosis.  Another deals with a chronic health condition.

In working on the monologue of a young woman with an addiction, I realized that, although I delight in storytelling and I love crafting the “voice” of a character, I had literally nothing from my own experience to go on.  (I mean, if I’m being truthful, I am a caffeine addict and probably could be considered a “shopaholic”, but that’s not where this piece is headed).  So, I reached out to my social media community, asking if anyone had any experiences with addition, mental health, relationship woes, or physical problems they were willing to share.

The response astounded me.  I had at least two dozen people contact me within an hour, from close friends to mere Facebook acquaintances, and they were ALL more than willing to share with me their experiences.   Clearly, these topics do resonate with people, so I feel that I did hear God’s voice when he nudged me in this direction.

That being said, I’m currently waiting on details from several of these folks so I can weave their individual threads into one beautifully bright tale of redemption, strength, and hope.  Those who have already shared with me have left me in awe of their often tragic, frequently beautiful stories of bravery in the face of mental, emotional, and physical challenges.

I hope to soon share it with the public.