You're an Angel

Somebody posted the comment "You're an angel" on Facebook this past week, which started me thinking about people vs. angels.

Most people have an elementary understanding of angels (and it isn't my intention to do an in-depth analysis on angelology). Most know that there are good angels and "fallen angels."

With this knowledge, one can than deduce that there are "perfect" angels that do God's bidding or there are rebellious angels that fight against God.

Why is this significant?

Since this is true, that statement declares one of two things. If that "compliment" is to be taken seriously, either the person receiving it is perfect, never sinning, or is working for the devil.

You see, angels have no hope of salvation. Those who rebelled against God had no Saviour to take their punishment. The Apostle Peter said that "God did not spare angels when they sinned." But we who are less than angelic beings have a chance to repent (Hebrews 2).

Have you ever thought about that?

It's important to be grateful for the physical and material blessings of life when we see examples of those in ill health or impoverished circumstances. Yet we also should remember the grace given us by our Lord Jesus, who saw us as rebellious sinners and came down to die in our place.

Peter wrote that the prophets who prophesied about this salvation and also the angels longed to know this gift given to us. Because of its indescribable worth, he exhorts us—

Therefore, prepare your minds for action; be self-controlled; set your hope fully on the grace to be given you when Jesus Christ is revealed. As obedient children, do not conform to the evil desires you had when you lived in ignorance. But just as He who called you is holy, so be holy in all you do; for it is written: “Be holy, because I am holy.”

Since you call on a Father who judges each man’s work impartially, live your lives as strangers here in reverent fear. For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your forefathers, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.  (1 Peter 1:13-19)

This week, let's remind each other to live lives of gratitude for the Gift no other created being has been offered.

Stand and Fight

I don't remember my age—although I'm told I was four or five—but I remember vividly the day I asked Jesus into my life. I may have told it before, but such a day always bears repeating.

My sister, Connie, and I walked home one evening after church (we lived across the street). She asked me if I was a Christian. I told her yes. That night I lay in bed and analyzed my answer (I still do this with conversations) to make sure I had told her the truth. Since our father is a pastor, I've heard about Jesus while in my mother's womb. Yet, as I lay there, I realized He was not my Saviour.

It was as if a veil lifted from my eyes. One moment the state of my soul did not concern me. The next, I knew emphatically that I had not surrendered, but I needed to. No prayer. No special formula. God touched my eyes, and I could see.

Following up this moment, which I now claim as my conversion, I acted upon it by going into my parent's room and asking my father to lead me to Jesus. We knelt together and prayed, confessing my sins and my need of a Saviour. I waited three or four years before I had the courage to stand in obedience and  confess before our church that Jesus is my Lord and be baptised.

That was the easy part of my years as a Christian. I responded to a work of God in my heart. The hard part followed.

I have not had a rebellious life. I credit that partly to personality and a great deal to God's answering the prayers of my parents. I can't claim to have learned the hard way. In fact, my prayer has always been that I may learn the easiest way possible.

The battle for me is much more subtle. It's maybe like someone who grows up in a war zone. The bullets fly so continually around you that you begin to forget their significance, forget the threat they are to your life. Because I grew up dwelling on the spiritual life, it became easy to think going through the motions was good enough.

Don't get me wrong. I hate hypocrisy, so I run from anything that smacks of inauthenticity, even in myself; but it's not always so simple to see you've crossed that line. It wasn't bad things. No obvious breaking of the Ten Commandments.

It was the little things. The "lesser gods," as C.S. Lewis calls them. The gods that when given the place, block one's vision of Yahweh. 

Boredom, more than anything, is dangerous. The same Bible reading and prayer routine, when done as a routine, can lose significance. One can grow deaf. You know what I mean?

It hasn't been big moments or large chunks of time. Graciously, God gives me little "checks" to let me know I'm fading in my attention.

This thought came up while my mother and I were discussing a couple that not long ago was on fire for God, zealously attending Bible study and church. Now, they ski on Sunday, leave their Bibles on the shelf, and confess confusion that their daughters are going their own way.

I know how it must have started. At least, I think I do. You go to do the routine and wonder what's the point. You fail at the same things over and over all your life, what makes you think you're going to change now? Maybe, just maybe, you wonder if there isn't some easier way, some fun you're actually missing out on.

These have been fleeting thoughts, just enough to scare me back to reality. When I'm there, when my love for God is distant, I can do nothing, but tell Him. Tell Him the truth about where I am. Sometimes all I can say is "help."

The only solution for cold moments is to cry out to our Father. When we've put our guard down and the enemy points the gun in our face, only God can shoot him in the back and save us. There is no formula. No spiritual exercise.

The wonderful thing is, when we tell Him our failing, our wicked desires, He scoops us up in love. Instead of scolding us, because we've known better (we've told others the other side's not worth it), He blesses us with His grace because we called upon His Name.

His Name saved us in our first moments of rebirth, and it is the Name that will keep us till our dying breath.

Let's be on our guard then. Stand and fight!

Friendship is Unnecessary

"I have no duty to be anyone's Friend and no man in the world has a duty to be mine. No claims, no shadow of necessity. Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create). It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival." ~C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

True friendship never begins as a duty. As Lewis says, it begins out of camaraderie in purposeful activity. It is the cherry on the Sunday (or the chocolate, whichever you prefer).

"Friends are not primarily absorbed in each other. It is when we are doing things together that friendship springs up—painting, sailing ships, praying, philosophizing, fighting shoulder to shoulder. Friends look in the same direction. Lovers look at each other: that is, in opposite directions." ~C.S. Lewis, Present Concerns

This arose in thought while contemplating the other characteristic (besides honesty) that I greatly admire—loyalty.

In ancient times, and indeed in some cultures today, your survival depended on the loyalty of your friends and of your family. If a traitor dwelt in your midst, your life's hourglass just ran out. You could not storm a castle, more-or-less defend one, if someone close to you divulged your secrets to the enemy. Numbers alone could not determine who won, as much as strategy and, underneath it all, loyalty.

To use a shady example: the old-time Mafia. In high school I became fascinated with studying them. I never glamorized it, yet (and please don't get me wrong) their code of loyalty always intrigued me. You sacrifice yourself before you become a "stooly" on "the family." 

I speak of the "old-time Mafia," because anyone who knows anything about them now knows betrayals, power-struggle-killings, anything is permissible. One writer compared the decline of any so-called "moral code" in the "family" with the United State's moral decline (Italy's problem is another story). As America moved father away from God and ethics, the crime syndicate moved away from their own "ethics." But I digress.

A better example: the spy world. Antonio J. Mendez, in his CIA autobiography The Master of Disguise, explained a deception he had pulled on his trainer, which almost cost him a job as an agent. He said: 

"I had violated a basic tenet in a profession where deception is the stock and trade: You never lie to or attempt to deceive a fellow officer in the service. Once you crossed this line, there was no going back. In what has been aptly termed a 'wilderness of mirrors,' a solid foundation of trust among colleagues had to exist."

How does this all swing back around to friendship?

The reality of my last post was neutralized by the grace of friends. The reality still existed, but these friends figuratively fought alongside me. Instead of wielding swords against an enemy, they shared a meal with laughter and good conversation. At another time I've shared a heart-disappointment, and my friend has offered to "fight him" for me. Neither of us took this offer with any seriousness. Yet, the sentiment is real. He's the defensive older brother I never had.

As Lewis explains in depth in The Four Loves, friendship is not a jealous love. Each friend brings out a side of another that no one else could draw out. If one friend dies, that part that he or she brought out of the other dies too.

No longer do I call you slaves, for the slave does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all things that I have heard from My Father I have made known to you. John 15:15

All this makes Jesus' statement to His disciples (and now to us) even more significant, don't you think? 

The value of noncompulsory-loyalty in friendship is balm for the soul. It is like glitter falling from heaven's golden streets. Every mile with a friend lightens the burden.

Honestly Me

One of the characteristics I've prized since I was a child—besides loyalty—is honesty. I can get along better with friends who are a little testy but I know where they stand, than ones always kind to my face but I never know how they feel.

Being a pursuer of honesty sure sounds virtuous, but it has a snag. How much is too much? 

This came up this summer. I had a roommate who was raised to believe that showing annoyance or even weariness is not acceptable. That one should always be pleasant.

I don't disagree that there is a point for this; one doesn't need to reveal every feeling nor should one. But there seems an element of dishonesty when one is upset by something someone has done, yet acts as if one is still on the best of terms with the other.

Because of this internal dilemma, I find I instinctively wish to avoid the person who has hurt me. This gives me time to figure out the storm within me and pray for peace. My reaction to a situation too is usually delayed. Anger or hurt often arises after a time of reflection. Dealing with this before being faced with the provocateur allows me to react in an honest, but appropriate matter.

Truthfully (since we're on that topic), if the hurt is deep, I would prefer to forgive them, but not ever have to face them again. Maybe I have done that in my past. 

Lately, God has brought several people into my life to humble me, yet He won't let me run from them. I'll have to face them again. I'll need to deal respectfully with them. Yet, I also want to be honest in my interaction and not treat them differently to their face than I feel behind their back. 

I know prayer is the best way to change an attitude, but it still isn't easy.

Have you wrestled with this? If so, what has helped you?

A WALK WITH MARY

Summary

A monologue, in which Mary the mother of Jesus reflects back on the events of the first Christmas and of the first Easter. 

Characters

Mary 

Script

I could never understand why my parents named me that. Mary. Just a family name, but why Mary? Why not Vania—'God's gracious gift' or Tobey—'God is good' or even Sarah—'princess." Why Mary? Why 'bitter'?

But not only did my name mean 'bitter,' as if that's not hard enough to answer to, it also was one of the most common names. 

 

'Mary! Did you finish your mending?' 

Five dozen yes's or no's would echo down our ally.

I learned to accept being common and answering to 'bitter' without becoming it. It was expected of a woman to accept her lot, and how could I be discontent when daily I knew the goodness of my God! 

One of my greatest amazements was His goodness in betrothing me to Joseph. I didn't need to be reminded, though my mother often would, of all the men my father could have chosen for me. Instead he chose Joseph, and Joseph wanted me! Such a kind and generous heart; I knew I would learn to love him very soon, if my admiration of him wasn't mixed with love already. 

"Then it happened. One minute I was daydreaming of Joseph, the children we'd have, a clean home with Joseph's shop around back, the children's bright eyes the first time they see the Temple, helping my children learn the Holy Scriptures, our Torah... when suddenly, the most incredible light shone from a being in the middle of my room. I hid my face. Was it God? Would I die? 

"Then he said it. 'Greetings, you who are highly favoured! The Lord is with you.' 

Me! A common nobody found favour with El Elyon, God Most High! Would have His Son! Would have the Messiah that every female born of Jacob dreamt of having! But it would be me! I had only kiddingly wished for it. I would laugh with pleasure at the thought of being uncommon enough to bear the Messiah—God's tool to deliver Israel. 

Deliver Israel.... That's the part I never understood; no Jew ever did. We expected a military hero, a king. The deliverance we experienced was unexpected. It was the reason Gabriel didn't change my name when he announced my son, Jesus, God's Son would be born. He called me Mary. 

I've pondered many things while raising Jesus. Or was it me learning from Him? That's the humour of it all. He taught in our Temple when He was only twelve! But He was God; why shouldn't He!

Then He did it. He delivered us. 

He allowed those who hated Him to just kill Him. He'd walked out of a crowd-full of people trying to stone Him. Then, for just a handful of rulers, He submits to condemnation. 

It was then I knew why I was called 'bitter.' I had never face bitterness like I did there at the feet of my son as He hung dying: not even when Joseph almost divorced me or the community shunned me as an adulteress or when we fled to Egypt to save Jesus' life or when Joseph died or Jesus left home. But here... I saw the hope of Israel dying a "needless" death. I had learnt by then not to ask or interfere, but to wait on the Lord. 

So I watched. As His heart broke and His lifeblood literally mixed with water and poured from His side, I died. I suffered the bitterest my life could have known. The Hope of Israel went out with the sun. It must have been His Father's anger, I thought then, that shook the earth. What could a mere woman do, Adonai?! You know. I would have died in His place! Even as I thought it, however, I knew it wouldn't have been the same. Though what good it had done for Him to die, I couldn't know. 

When the earthquake happened, many of Jesus' followers thought it was the end; we'd be swallowed up by the earth like Korah was in the desert. Some were even foolish enough to wail that God's prophecies were ruined; surely all Israel would die for it. Others ignored nature's chaos, and believed their trust in Jesus was misplaced. 

We didn't know then that the Temple curtain had been torn. Torn from top to bottom. The entrance to the forbidden Holy of Holies was exposed. All the priests ran out covering their eyes lest they perish.

Three days of grieving. A sorrowful Sabbath. Then Mary of Magdela, Mary Clopas wife and Saloam found Jesus' tomb was empty. Mary of Magdela claimed Jesus had come to her...alive! As the weeks went by, we and five hundred others saw Jesus, touched Him, ate and talked with Him. 

My son is alive! God's Son is alive. He is no more mine to guide and mother, but I am His now. He is and always has been greater than I. I can know His Father because of His blood sacrificed and perfect, acceptable as the complete atonement for my sin. Elohim, God has accepted Him as my sacrifice; my punishment was paid by my son. I am no longer 'bitter.' I am still common among men, yet loved by the Lord. 

Have you met Him? Come. Let me introduce you to Jesus.

.................................................
© Katy R. Pent, all rights reserved.

To Describe God

Below is an edited version of a prayer I wrote in February 2005. I’m posting it because I think to at least some of it you’ll relate.

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If I should try to describe You, God, I might say You’re like a mist; You form various shapes, but appear everywhere and different. I trust You to know my heart and know how I would not accuse You of changeableness, but accuse my understanding of not grasping You.

You are like a firefly on a dark summer night. I may believe You are there, but until you turn on Your light, I’m not certain where.

Sometimes You appear as a possible predator to my happiness; like a rattlesnake somewhere on a ranch, and I’m praying none of mine will step in Your path and take death’s poisonous exit.

Sometimes I long for You, ache for You, despair of being had by You. You stand nearby as my Invisible Observer, but You don’t make a sound. I end up on the floor with my paper gods with faces cut from magazines, little creatures no bigger than myself whom You have made.

Sometimes I listen for You and feel proud that I actually want to hear You. I hear buzzes, I hear cars, I hear the whistle of a train, but not one small whisper from Your lips.

I panic sometimes. If You should ever leave it to me to find my way Home, I’d be lost forever.

But I believe in You, God. You have been my Father, my Guide, my Strength, my Sustainer. In You is the only hope in which I can dream.

Funny. It is good to say that—the only Hope in which I can dream. Getting here has not been so easy. I’ve come kicking and screaming, but You didn’t put me down.

Oh, if only this was the end and all the refinement I need could be made with these “small” losses; if only I didn’t know greater sacrifices might await me. Oh, how lonely and scary and heart-wrenching one short life can be. You do not ask for more than You gave. You ask for everything.

What will Home be like with You? How is it that our tasks will look so small from the light of Home? What do I need to know or realise in order to let go and let You hurt me and still trust You completely?

Open my eyes wider. Not inwardly. Upwardly. Father, I see a shrivelled worm as I look inward. I see a sad excuse for a human—talentless, friendless, pointless, but still holding on to my pride to not get hurt and to my mini-gods.

What does it mean to be a Christian? What is it like to be free of myself? Where is the dividing line, the gulf that I can cross or be flung over and become the outward clothes of the Living Son of God? Where do You begin and I end? Draw it up. Point me there. It’s time that life began—No turning back.

Here are my fears. You’ll need to check all my pockets and hiding places. There are always some fresh ones lying around.

Here is my fear of losing those I love—of dying while they live or living after they die.  Here’s my fear of getting older and my desire to die early. Here are my fears—of rejection, of being unchanged and entering eternal shame, of success, of failure. Here’s my fear of never getting any closer to You or of getting too close to You.

Father, these are scary things to give up. All these fears, these quirks…You aren’t going to find anything left of me when they are gone.

It’s a starting place. I already feel myself reaching for my comfort “blankets.” I’ll take them all back, if you let me. PLEASE don’t let me. Let’s go forward, Father. It’s time. It’s past time.

How Are You?

There’s an art in sharing oneself.

I've discovered in most friendships that it is much easier to listen and to ask questions than to share (unless it’s trite facts). I find I feel a little smug when I’ve finished an hour and a half conversation with someone that is all about them.

Then a thought dawns on me. What if when I stand before God expecting praise for my listening ability, He looks sadly at me and asks why I was so stingy with myself?

Ninety or more percent of those I talk to actually don’t want to know any details of my life. I’m sure you’ve found that too. You begin to share something on your heart or answer their question about how you are when you notice they have mentally vacated the premises. Or you share something troubling you and they have an over-simplified, patronising solution that you’ve never found to work. Or you are told that how you feel is not a valid feeling, so you leave feeling worse than when you’d arrived.

I have a friend who I help with vacuuming once a month. The best part is sitting down with her after it’s over. I’ve shared my broken heart with her, and she empathised. I've poured out frustrations, and she sides with me. She doesn’t have pat answers. She doesn’t over-spiritualize. She just cares about me. Throughout our time, she also shares—she tells me of her struggle with grief over her mother’s death and the holidays coming. She has shared her couple-decade-old-hopes that never became reality. She listens and she shares. It’s a rare gift. I treasure those moments.

It seems easier to share with some I’ve never met. It’s often easier to think things through in e-mails and remember to ask things of which you may or may not be interested, because it’s staring at you in black and white. When you’re face to face, though, what you ask or what you share is what is most prominent on your heart or mind.

It’s safer not to share. Rejection, of any kind, pierces deep. 

Do you find it easy to share yourself with others? Why or why not? Who do you have to listen to your hopes and dreams and to trust you with their own?